


Come Find Me

by mmorgan317



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, I don't think, Malcolm Bright Whump, Malcolm Whump, The Killer Taunts the Team, mentions of torture, nothing too graphic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:07:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 52,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21698230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mmorgan317/pseuds/mmorgan317
Summary: When the killer in their latest case takes Malcolm, the team is left to solve the case without their profiler. Can they rescue Malcolm before any permanent damage is done?Written for Bad Things Happen Bingo Prompt: Kidnapping
Comments: 88
Kudos: 225





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer - I own nothing of PS. In all honesty, Chris Fedak does such an amazing job whumping Malcolm that I probably don't even need to, but where's the fun in that? :D 
> 
> Notes: I think I may have bit off more than I can chew with this fic, but hopefully it meets everyone's expectations. Thank you, dear readers, for being so patient while I wrote it. I know many of you are excited for it. Fingers crossed I don't fail you. 
> 
> 2: Thank you to my beta, hellbent_panda, for taking the time to look this fic over. I know we're not anywhere near done, but still, I appreciate your time and patience.

**Prologue**

  
  
  
  
  


The first thing Malcolm noticed when he regained consciousness was the sound of scurrying behind him. He listened for a few minutes, concentrating more than he probably should be in order to determine what creatures kept him company. When he heard a lot of squeaks, he knew who his roommates were. Being a New Yorker, Malcolm was no stranger to rats, but the idea of them surrounding him, watching him, was not a comfortable thought. 

The second thing he became aware of was that he had no shoes on. Since his feet seemed to dangle several feet above the floor, he supposed it wasn’t something he should be concerned with at the moment, but it was such an odd thing that he couldn’t _help_ but pay attention to it. Malcolm rotated his ankles, wincing when his right one ached painfully. The bandage that had been applied when Gil had forced him to the doctor was still there, which meant that his abductor had only concentrated on removing his socks and shoes. Although he wasn’t entirely sure why, he had a suspicion he’d find out during his captivity, and he doubted he’d like the answer.

The third thing he noticed was that his head was killing him. Intense throbbing was the proper way to describe the sensation, though he thought it far too gentle a description for what he was feeling. Malcolm groaned when the the pain made itself known, almost whimpering when that only made the headache worse. It took far longer than he liked for him to remember  _ why _ his skull was threatening to explode, and when he did, he wished he hadn’t. 

Malcolm waited several minutes after waking before he attempted to get a look at his surroundings. A part of him wanted to see what he could hear before giving away that he was conscious, just in case his captor was watching him. The other part needed to let his head stop pounding long enough for him to be able to think; if he had any hope of surviving this, he was going to need every ounce of brain power he could get. When he heard nothing beyond the squeaks of his small roommates and his own steadily increasing breathing, Malcolm deemed it time to have a look around. 

Light as brilliant as the sun speared his vision, blinding him with its intensity and driving his headache up from an incessant pounding to someone chiseling into his brain. Malcolm hissed in pain and immediately closed his eyes. He waited for a few minutes until the pain was back down to a manageable ache, ears straining to hear something beyond his own heartbeat, then he opened his eyes to slits, allowing them time to adjust, before widening them. 

Upon closer inspection, Malcolm noticed that it wasn’t that the whole room was brightly lit, but that there was a spotlight on him, ensuring that  _ he  _ was the prime focus for anyone that entered. Malcolm felt fear begin to build in his chest as his brain surmised what that meant - the killer wanted to make a spectacle of him before he was killed. 

Fighting against panic, Malcolm continued looking around the room, hoping for a clue as to where he was being held. 

At first it was hard for him to determine anything. His fear was so strong that it threatened to overwhelm him, muddying his already murky brain. Making sure to take slow, even breaths, he looked around, surprise making him quietly gasp as he looked above his head.

Given that his feet dangled in the air, Malcolm should have realized that he was hanging by his wrists, yet it hadn’t even occurred to him. Now that he saw it, however, Malcolm felt the ache in his shoulders as gravity pulled him down. He was not looking forward to the moment when the strain became too much and one or both of his shoulders dislocated. 

The rope that held him was thick and coarse, securing his wrists in a hold that both itched and hurt at the same time. Squinting, Malcolm saw that the skin was already red from what little moving he’s done; if he struggled at all, abrasions would be joining not long after that. Bruises had already formed, leaving strong marks underneath the rough braids. 

Since he couldn’t do anything about his predicament, Malcolm moved on, following the rope up to the ceiling, then behind him to what looked like an abandoned bar with a copper counter. It ended at some sort of pulley device, which would easily allow the killer to adjust the height at which Malcolm hung. 

“Hello?” he called as he looked around at the rest of the room. It was hard to see at first; his eyes were so used to the light that they couldn’t make out anything in the shadows beyond. Once they adjusted, however, Malcolm saw enough to confirm that he was most likely being held in an abandoned nightclub, but nothing more. Figuring that at least that was something to go on, Malcolm called out again, making sure to be louder as he said, “Hello?!”

It took awhile, but eventually Malcolm heard the sound of footsteps as someone approached. Not realizing anyone had been in the same room with him, Malcolm jumped and pivoted to his left as much as his position would allow. Wherever this guy had been, he had purposely blended in with the shadows, presumably to watch his prisoner without being noticed. 

The man who stood before him was personally unknown to Malcolm, yet he knew his name: Matthew Cunningham. He was tall, and would have easily towered over the profiler had he not been raised as high as he was. At this height, Malcolm could conveniently meet the cold brown eyes that looked at him with such hatred he actually tried to swallow his fear. 

“Oh good, you’re awake,” his captor said, managing to look pleased by that, in spite of the fact that his tone held little joy in it. This was business for Matthew. He was here to accomplish something and once that task was done, Malcolm would be of no further value to him. 

Malcolm’s heart started racing, his eyes widening as fear completely engulfed him.

Matthew turned his back, briefly drawing Malcolm’s gaze to the video camera that was set up and aimed directly at him. When his captor turned back around, he had what appeared to be a shawl in one hand and a very long stick in the other. What he was planning on doing with those, Malcolm couldn’t even begin to imagine, but he knew he wasn’t going to like it. 

Face hard as stone, Matthew said, “Now we can get started.” 

**TBC**

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**I**

  
  


**_72 Hours Earlier_ **

  
  
  


Malcolm Bright’s day began much the same as it did every morning - with him screaming himself awake. Ever since he had started treating his nightmares as memories rather than just ghoulish dreams born of a damaged psyche, what he saw while he slept changed with every new bit of information he discovered during his investigation. Each new nightmare was another piece to a bigger puzzle that Malcolm couldn’t yet see. Sometimes, he wasn’t sure he wanted to see it for fear of what he’d find, but others he was almost desperate to solve it and move on. 

Lately, however, he kept seeing the girl in the box. Every time he closed his eyes for more than a few seconds, there she was, haunting him. She was one mystery that Malcolm was beginning to fear he’d never solve because, although he discovered new things, they never came close to  _ her _ . Whenever Malcolm thought himself close, it ended in misdirection, or a flat-out dead end, leaving him to wonder if his father was actually that good or if he was just damned lucky. 

Going through his morning routine was a comfort to him, like a balm applied to wounds that were opened while he slept. No matter what happened during the night, he could always trust in that routine, so much so that it was almost a mindless ‘moving through the motions while not even realizing he was doing it’ sort of experience. Some days, that wasn’t a good thing because it allowed his mind to dwell too long on whatever had woken him; other times it was just what he needed. 

This morning’s song was  _ Get Up Sex Machine  _ and Malcolm couldn’t help but smile while he made his coffee, took his meds, and started his exercises. Rather than allowing his mind to wander, Malcolm forced it to focus on the here and now. He meticulously counted each rep of chin-ups, concentrated on each breath during yoga, and fully revelled in the soreness of his muscles when he did an extra set of push-ups. By the time he was finished, he felt more balanced. Perhaps not enough to satisfy his mother or Gil, but it was enough for him. 

Taking a shower was included in his routine of course, but it was different than the rest. The coffee and the exercises woke him up, the meds theoretically helped him function like a regular person, but the shower? The shower helped him feel like  _ him _ . It rinsed away whatever of the nightmares that still lingered on his mind, making him better able to don a stable persona when he got dressed. Leaving his phone on the kitchen island, Malcolm headed up to the second floor where his closet was located to grab a set of clothes to change into after his shower. 

Although living in a building owned by his mother  _ did  _ have downsides, Malcolm thought of them as minor inconveniences when compared with its advantages. Yes, his mother barged in announced whenever she felt like it, not caring if he was there or not, and almost always helping herself his liquor,  _ but  _ on the other hand, he didn’t pay for things like rent or utilities, his kitchen was always miraculously stocked and even his laundry got done sometimes, so he dealt with her…visits with as much grace as he could muster at any given time. 

As he was grabbing his clothes, Malcolm heard his phone vibrating downstairs. Believing it to be his mother, he sighed. He wasn’t ready to speak with her right this moment, not with last night’s dreams so fresh in his mind, but knowing that she would just keep calling, he headed to answer it anyways. The second stair from the top gave an audible crack when he put his foot down and Malcolm had a second to wonder how the hell it could have gotten broken to begin with before he tumbled rather ungracefully down the rest of the way. He landed on the floor with an ‘oof’, the breath briefly being knocked from his lungs as his back and head connected with the hardwood. 

Sometime during his fall, his phone had stopped vibrating, but that had only been because his voicemail picked up, since not long after it had stopped, it started again. Blinking back the spots that were currently blocking out parts of his vision, Malcolm sat up, groaning when everything seemed to hurt for a brief second. He winced as his right wrist throbbed with pain when he used it to push himself up, and then proceeded to fall into the banister when he tried to put weight on his right ankle and failed entirely. Groaning in both frustration and pain, Malcolm waited a few seconds before he limp-hopped over to the kitchen counter and grabbed his still-vibrating phone. 

“Gil,” he greeted when he saw the familiar name on the screen. His relief at finding it to be his surrogate father calling him rather than his very controlling mother was obvious in his voice, but he was fine with that as it helped to hide the pain. “You got something for me?” 

_ “Yeah. Got a body in a basement,” _ was the succinct answer, though something in Gil’s voice told Malcolm there was definitely more to the story. 

“Okay. Great. Send me the address, I’ll meet you there.” 

There was a pause and then,  _ “Kid, you okay?” _

Knowing that Gil had heard the pain in his voice, Malcolm quickly replied, “Yeah. Great. Never better. Send me that address,” and then hung up before Gil could say anything more because if Gil thought he was hurt, he wouldn’t let Malcolm come and Malcolm really needed these random cases that Gil threw his way. 

He tested his ankle before he made another attempt to walk - he most certainly did  _ not  _ want to fall over again - and then he heavily limped over, picked up his clothes, laid them on the bed, and then took a shower. By the time he was finished, his ankle was killing him and his wrist was keeping time with his heartbeat, but he ignored the pain, dressed, then checked his phone. 

While he’d been in the shower, Gil had sent him the address, along with a separate text checking to make sure he was okay. Ignoring his friend’s concern, Malcolm said that he was on his way and gave him an estimated time so that Gil could meet him outside and let him into the crime scene. Why he still didn’t have clearance to enter on his own, Malcolm didn’t know, and he hadn’t asked since it felt like a non-issue; he always waited for Gil to call him in before he showed up, which meant that the older man was always there to escort him to the dead body or bodies. 

Making a mental note to ask his mother about the stair, Malcolm grabbed his phone, wallet, and keys, then he limped out the door to join Gil and the rest of the team at the crime scene.

  
  


**oOo**

  
  


When he got to the address, Malcolm paused in confusion. It was obviously the right place: the police barricade alone told him that, but even so, he checked his phone to make sure he hadn’t showed up to the wrong crime scene. Yep, he had the right place. His heart began to beat a little faster as anxiety shot through his system. To be standing in front of a place so wholly entwined with his childhood, a place in which he hadn’t been welcome in over ten years, was the last thing he had been expecting when Gil had sent him the text. He stood for a solid minute, staring in surprise at the stone building that hadn’t changed at all since he’d last seen it. Shaking off his reaction, Malcolm looked for Gil. 

As per his usual, Gil had his hands on his hips, his brown eyes scanning the streets. Upon spotting Malcolm, Gil smiled, lowering his hands and walking to meet Malcolm halfway. That smile quickly dropped when he noticed Malcolm’s limp. “You sure you should be here, Bright?” he asked when they finally reached one another. He blocked Malcolm’s path, forcing him to satisfy Gil with an answer before he could go further.

“Yeah,” Malcolm answered casually, refusing to be kept out of the loop simply because he’d twisted his ankle. “You said there’s a body in the basement?” Gil’s expression was dubious at best, but he stepped aside and escorted Malcolm into the house. 

Although it had been  _ years  _ since Malcolm had been inside this house, it felt like yesterday the minute he entered. Old memories came rushing back to him with such strength that he quietly gasped at the force of it. They weren’t all good memories, as Malcolm had been bullied a lot in this house, but there were enough good ones to outweigh the bad by exponential amounts. Looking around the foyer, Malcolm spotted picture frames with familiar faces. Save for the fact that the father was left out of the pictures after a certain time frame, the family seemed to be in tact. Malcolm briefly remembered his mother telling him that Jack Bertrand had died, but since he’d never liked the man, he hadn’t been too bothered by the news. 

“Bright, you okay?” 

Gil’s voice brought Malcolm back to the present, where he offered a smile to his friend and started heading for the basement door. “Yeah. Fine,” he answered dismissively. “Tell me about the body.”

Just as he was about to start descending the stairs, Gil put his arm over the doorway, effectively blocking his entry for the second time in five minutes. “Before you go down, I want you to prepare yourself.” 

“Prepare myself for what?” Malcolm asked with a sinking feeling.  _ Please don’t let Gil say it was one of the family who was down there.  _

“This is gonna hit some buttons for you,” Gil said, his eyes tracking everyone around them. He seemed hesitant to speak, but he added, “It’s a girl, and it looks like she was stored in a rectangular box of some kind before she was left here.” 

Gil may not have known about his night terrors, but Malcolm knew he was perfectly aware of the nightmares - what they entailed, who featured in them, and what his most recurring one was. Given that, it didn’t surprise Malcolm that the man was so worried about him, but he  _ was _ shocked that Gil had even bothered to call him in. It was possible this was a similar situation with Carter Berkhead, where Gil was needing Malcolm to confirm a copycat, but something about the way Gil was acting told Malcolm that wasn’t what this was. 

“Got it,” he said, grateful for Gil’s warning and concern. He smiled, hoping it was reassuring enough to convince his friend. If Gil thought he wouldn’t be able to handle seeing the scene, he wouldn’t let Malcolm pass. It took longer than Malcolm would have liked, but Gil eventually lowered his arm, allowing Malcolm to descend while he followed right behind. 

Hand shaking so badly it sent pain through his wrist, Malcolm awkwardly went down the stairs, using the wall to his right and the banister to his left to help him avoid putting too much weight on his ankle. The last thing he needed was to fall down the stairs for a second time in the same day. Chances were good, Gil would not let him continue with the case, and would probably make him see a doctor if that happened. Besides, he needed to earn this group’s respect and landing on one’s face at a crime scene was not the way to do it. One thing he learned growing up was that, with a crowd like this, it was never a good idea to show weakness. 

Having spent so much time in this house, and even to some degree in this basement, Malcolm immediately pivoted to his left to head for the main portion of the room. With the rest of the areas being storage rooms that could barely hold the multitude of boxes and antique furniture they had in them, Malcolm knew precisely where he would find the body without needing to be directed to it.

His limp was heavy as he made his way there, both pain and weakness making it impossible for him to hide the injury. Out of the corner of his eye, Malcolm saw Dani’s brows furrow with a frown while JT’s lifted in surprise. With her focus solely on the victim, Edrisa had yet to notice him and that was fine with him. 

Over the course of their working relationship, the crush the ME had on him seemed to lessen its hold on her. As there were times when Malcolm could see it shine through in her eyes, he knew she hadn’t given up on it entirely, but she had made an effort to move beyond that. As a result, they had managed to establish a friendship. While not quite the same as his friendship with Dani, it was still one that Malcolm both cherished and feared he’d ruin at the same time. 

Malcolm’s step faltered as he finally saw the victim, his ankle rolling painfully underneath him as all of his weight settled on his right leg. 

She lay in the center of the room, curled up like she’d been confined to a trunk not unlike the one Malcolm had discovered in his own basement over twenty years ago. With skin as pale as milk almost gleaming under the work lamps, she was mostly naked, though her arms covered her breasts which helped to give her some semblance of modesty in death. Her straw-colored hair was draped over her face like a blanket, hiding her identity from them with the thick strands.

Gil’s hands were strong as he stopped Malcolm from falling over when his step stuttered, his grip squeezing Malcolm’s arms with almost bruising force. From the small shakes his friend was giving him, it was clear that Gil was asking him something, no doubt trying to make sure he was okay, but his mind was so consumed by the sight in front of him that he didn’t hear it. His heart beginning to beat faster, Malcolm stared wide-eyed at the victim. 

How had their killer known what he saw in his nightmares? Had his father shared details with the killer that he wouldn’t even share with Malcolm? Or did the killer have access to more information than Malcolm did, an inner connection that was completely unknown to him?

When Gil’s voice finally got through to him, it was laced with worry. “Bright, you alright?” 

Doing his best to dispel his thoughts, Malcolm blinked, forcing himself to look away and focus on the crime scene as a whole rather than simply how it pertained to him. Hiding his shaking hand inside his coat pocket, he disentangled himself from Gil’s hold, offering a smile of reassurance as he did it. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he answered, though he knew that absolutely no one in the room believed him. Even though Gil had warned him, had told him to prepare himself for this, Malcolm knew there was nothing he could have done to be ready for what had actually greeted him. 

Trying to exude perfect health, he stepped closer to the crime scene so he could see all of it from a better angle. 

Gil’s response wasn’t immediate, but eventually, he seemed content enough with Malcolm’s well-being to ask, “So what do we know?” 

“Not a whole lot, unfortunately,” Edrisa answered from her position by the body, evidently assuming the question was for her. She stood up and walked around to join Malcolm, her gaze still glued to the victim. “Other than some ligature marks from whatever she was kept inside, and some bruising around her wrists and ankles, there’s not much we can tell. Judging by lividity and body temp, I’d put time of death at sometime last night, but I’ll have to get her back to the morgue to find out more.” 

“Cause of death?” Gil asked, drawing the ME’s attention to him. 

“Suffocation,” Edrisa announced definitively. “Going by the cyanotic color of her lips and skin, and the lack of bruising around her throat, I’m guessing it was some kind of poison, but like I said, I won’t know more until I get her back.” 

Malcolm nodded with each new bit of information to show he’d heard her, but he said nothing. He took in everything, trying to decide if this was anything other than a message for him. His personal bias would skew whatever he saw, so he did his best to try to see the scene from all possible avenues to determine if there  _ were  _ any other sides to this.

“What else do we know?” Gil asked while Malcolm continued to stare at the scene. He walked behind the victim’s back, making sure to stay out of Malcolm’s line-of-sight as he joined JT and Dani.

“Vic is a Jane Doe,” JT said, his neutral tone showing just how many times they had done this. “No wallet or ID has been found yet to identify her and we’re waiting to get the results back on her fingerprints. Unis are still canvasing, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.” 

“The body was discovered around six a.m. by the owner and her dog,” Dani took over. “Apparently the dog smelled something and came to investigate. Owner called it in as soon as she saw the body.” 

“The owner’s dog?” Malcolm asked, confusion briefly wrinkling his brows. 

In all his time in this house, Malcolm could never remember a dog being allowed. Jack didn’t want animals dirtying his home and had expressly forbid it. Since Emily had always appeared to be of similar mind, it hadn’t occurred to Malcolm that she would have gone against her husband’s wishes once he was dead and gotten a dog. 

“Yeah,” JT answered, looking at Malcolm like he was being crazier than normal. “Sweet little Border Collie named Holly.” 

“How did the dog find the body?” Malcolm asked, limping around the victim to look at the scene from a different viewpoint. “I’m assuming it wasn’t by accident.” 

“The killer left some treats to draw the dog to the body,” Gil answered, pointing to an officer who was carrying an evidence bag of small dog bones. He paused, which caught Malcolm’s attention and he looked at Gil in time to see his friend look at Dani with a hesitant expression before adding, “Along with a note.” 

“A note?” Malcolm asked, intrigued. Reaching across Edrisa, Malcolm grabbed the evidence bag from Officer Salazar with a, “Thank you.” The note was short, one line, in fact, with no hint as to whom it was addressed. Even still, Malcolm knew it was for him.

_**Do you even remember her?** _

Malcolm clenched his jaw at the rebuke. Like he could forget her? Maybe if he could, he’d actually be able to sleep for more than three hours at a time. Or maybe, he wouldn’t spend his waking hours wondering how many others his father managed to slip past him. How many more had The Surgeon been able to kill without Malcolm realizing what was going on? Needless to say, Malcolm doubted he would  _ ever  _ forget the girl in the box.

But did that mean that he remembered her? She haunted his dreams, sure, but he couldn’t remember anything specific about her. If he closed his eyes, Malcolm could picture her skin, her hair, her position as she lay in the trunk. He could hear her breathing, the sound of her voice, and the jangle of her bracelet while she moved. But could he remember  _ her _ ? No, and that bothered him more than he liked. 

“Do you know what it means?” Dani asked in a tone that said she thought he would. 

Looking up, Malcolm found everyone in the room staring at him, expecting an answer. “Maybe,” he hedged, not wanting to get into his theories with so many eyes on him. 

“I remember reading that Emily Bertrand passed away last year,” Gil interjected, drawing all attention to himself and changing the subject at the same time. “Who is the new owner of the house?” 

Emily had died? Malcolm’s first reaction upon hearing that was anger - why hadn’t his mother told him? She knew how much the Bertrands meant to him, she should have at least left him a voicemail informing him of the event. But then he recalled that at the time he was still with the FBI and that she very well could have and he simply may not remember it. His stint with the FBI had been chaotic to say the least; his mother could have told him that she’d gotten remarried, and Malcolm may not have remembered it until he met his stepfather in person.

Malcolm’s second reaction to the news was grief. It wasn’t as strong as it had been when Jackie had died, but then again, Jackie had been nothing short of a mother to him when his own mother hadn’t been. Emily Bertrand had tried to fill that void for him, but though she was a good woman, that hole had already been filled. Instead, she’d become something like a doting grandmother. She’d provided a safe place for him to be when he needed to hide from the outside world, not pushing him to talk if he didn’t want to, but always making sure to be around in case he did. She had done her best to feed him, though his appetite even then had been fickle at best. Most importantly, she had loved him as much as he had allowed her to. 

“Property records show Olivia Bertrand as the owner,” Dani answered after flipping open her notepad and consulting it. 

“Olivia inherited the house?” he asked, sounding both pleased and confused. 

Jack Bertrand had been old school, and believed in leaving things to the eldest, meaning that Robert, Olivia’s older brother, should be the one to own the home. It was possible that Robert had died, leaving Olivia as the next inheritor, but Malcolm didn’t think that likely, as hearing one of his main tormentors as a child was dead was something he  _ definitely  _ would have remembered. 

“You know her?” JT asked. 

Malcolm nodded. “We grew up together.” 

“Lieutenant Arroyo?” An officer Malcolm hadn’t seen before approached, his hat in hand and an apologetic expression on his face. “Miss Bertrand would like to know when we’ll be done. Apparently she has a lot of work to get done today.” 

“Sounds like a real sweetheart,” JT snidely mumbled, just loud enough for Malcolm to hear. 

Much as he wanted to, Malcolm didn’t defend Olivia. He was well aware of how much people can change in ten years, and though the girl he knew before she’d gone to college wasn’t like that, he couldn’t argue the same for the woman she had become while she was there. 

“Alright, JT, you and Dani get back to the office, see if you can find out who our Jane Doe is. Bright and I will go interview the owner and maybe try to soothe some ruffled feathers.” 

Taking that as his cue, Malcolm headed for the stairs. The trip going back up was harder than coming down, but he made it work, using the banister as much for support as to keep him upright. Behind him, Gil said nothing, which Malcolm thought was big of him since he could practically feel Gil’s eyes burning holes into his back as he stared at Malcolm with worry.

When he got to the top, Malcolm stepped aside to wait for Gil to take the lead. Even though Malcolm knew where he was going, and where Olivia was most likely waiting, he also knew that he had no authority here. This, Malcolm knew, was a police matter, not a personal one. 

Olivia waited in the parlor, her arms crossed over her chest and impatience on her face and Malcolm did his best not to smile when he saw her. That fierce look was one he remembered all too well from childhood, usually aimed at her brother, but sometimes she’d given it to him too; it was good to know that  _ some  _ things hadn’t changed. The dark blue blouse complimented her long red hair wonderfully, while her beige pencil skirt accented her waist without being too tight. She wore both makeup and jewelry, but with taste and class. Carefully balancing the two had always been something which Olivia had done with ease, unintendedly shaming the much older women within their social circle who couldn’t. Whatever else that had happened while she’d been away, Malcolm could easily see bits of the young woman she’d been when she’d left. 

When she saw Malcolm, Olivia lowered her arms, her mouth going slack from surprise. She quickly recovered when Gil said, “Miss Bertrand, my name is Lieutenant Gil Arroyo from the NYPD and this is Mr. Bright. I know that it’s already been a long morning, and that you’re eager to get to work, but we’d like to ask you a few questions if you don’t mind?” 

Her glaze flicking briefly to Malcolm before settling back on Gil, Olivia answered, “All right. Please, sit.” She didn’t even wait to see if they were going to do as she bed before she settled onto the edge of an antique-looking armchair that had been there since she and Malcolm were kids. When both Malcolm and Gil followed suit, she asked, “How can I help you?” 

“About what time did you get in last night?” Gil asked, pulling out a small notebook to write his notes in. 

Olivia’s brows furrowed briefly as she tried to remember. “Must have been after nine, I believe. I had dinner with a friend and then came straight home.” 

“We’re going to need the contact information of the friend,” Gil warned.

Something akin to guilt flashed in Olivia’s green eyes as she answered, “Ainsley Whitly. If you want her number, I suspect her brother can give it to you easier than I could.” 

Gil looked between Malcolm and Olivia, his expression showing that he’d be asking about Malcolm’s history with Olivia later. “Alright,” he said, moving on. “Did you lock up when you came home?” 

“The housekeeper, Maria, does that before she leaves for the night. She exits out a side door and locks it from the outside.” She paused to check the time, then added, “She should be arriving shortly, if you want to speak with her.” 

“She’s getting here kind of late,” Malcolm said, briefly forgetting that he was supposed to be a silent observer. 

“She comes in later Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays,” Olivia assured. “She has small kids and I’m not a messy enough person to need her here every minute of every day, so I let her come in late three days a week, and I give her Sunday off.” 

“What time does she normally leave in the evening?” 

“It varies, depending on my schedule, but last night, it was about ten. It was the latest I’ve ever kept her.” 

She sounded defensive as she answered, but Malcolm couldn’t blame her. To most people those hours would have sounded ridiculous and unnecessary, but to the rich, that was lenient. Clearly Olivia knew how it would be perceived and was prepared to defend herself to any who challenged her. 

“How often do you go into the basement?” 

“Not very often,” she answered glancing at Malcolm. “It’s mostly the staff that goes down there. I’ll go if I need something from storage, but that isn’t a regular occurrence.” 

Gil’s brief glance at Malcolm said he thought he knew why the killer had chosen Olivia’s house to leave a dead body. It would have been child’s play for someone to get in without being noticed. The fact that this was a house in which Malcolm had spent time in as a child could be a coincidence, but Malcolm wasn’t yet convinced of that.

“Where is your dog kept while you’re out of the house?” Malcolm asked as the thought occurred to him. 

Olivia looked confused by the change in questions, but she answered readily. “She has a room at the back of the house; it’s climate controlled, with easy access outside. I’m gone a lot more than I like and I don’t like leaving her cooped up in a crate while I’m out.” 

“The staff doesn’t let her outside?” Gil asked, clearly finding that odd. 

“Maria is afraid of dogs, and Thomas, my driver, isn’t in the house often enough to notice when she needs out.” 

Gil took that in, made a note in his notebook, then asked, “Does anyone else have access to the home?”

“No, just the staff, myself, and my brother, Robert.” 

“Is Robert in town?” Malcolm asked. “I’d heard he moved to Kentucky.”

“He did,” she assured. “He opened a successful brewery there, and runs it with his wife. He’s coming back tonight for a short visit. Nothing more.” 

At that, Gil stood, both Olivia and Malcolm doing the same. “If you can think of anything else,” he said, “here’s my card.” 

“What if I need to talk to Mr. Whi..I mean, Mr. Bright?” she asked, stopping Gil in his tracks just as he reached the doorway.

Malcolm froze. Not because she had almost called him by the last name of Whitly, but because he was surprised she should want to contact him. Her silence over the last ten years seemed to signify that she wanted nothing to do with him and so he had expected this to be both their reunion and their last meeting. Evidently, he was wrong. 

“I’m sure Mr. Bright wouldn’t mind putting his number on the back of the card,” Gil replied, with a small hint of laughter in his tone as he pulled a pen out of his blazer pocket and handed it over to Malcolm. 

Feeling a little embarrassed, Malcolm smiled, took the pen out of Gil’s outstretched hand, then limped to her. Olvia’s brows wrinkled when she noticed his gait, but she said nothing as he wrote his number down and handed the card back to her. 

“Thank you,” she said, her eyes looking almost apologetic. 

“You’re welcome,” he answered, aiming for nonchalant and failing miserably. He smiled politely, ignoring the beginnings of laughter he could see in her eyes, and then joined Gil in the hall. 

The two of them walked in silence until they were near Gil’s car, well out of earshot of curious onlookers, reporters, or crime scene techs. Since Gil had chosen to park down the street from Olivia’s house, the walk gave them both time to think before they said anything. Malcolm honestly wasn’t sure what to think about it all. His thoughts were so sporadic that he found it hard to bring one into strong enough focus. 

“So what do you think?” Gil asked when they were about a block away, the black Les Mans shining brightly in the mid-morning sun. “Is this about your father?” 

“I think it’s very likely that it is,” Malcolm answered, wincing as the throbbing in his ankle got more intense. “But I know that you guys will want to explore every possibility first.” 

“Not necessarily,” Gil answered, slowing his pace so that he could stay by Malcolm’s right side. The fact that Malcolm’s limp had gotten more noticeable with every step apparently hadn’t been lost on him and he seemed prepared to catch Malcolm should he fall. “I’m well aware of what nightmares haunt you, Bright. And this killer seems fixated on the girl that we never found.” 

Malcolm was about to respond when his ankle gave out and he fell into Gil, who caught him with ease. He hissed with renewed pain, growling a little as the frustration began to dwarf the discomfort. Of all the times to twist his ankle by falling down the stairs!

“You wanna tell me what happened?” Gil asked as he helped Malcolm the rest of the way to the muscle car. He held Malcolm close, acting as the crutch that he obviously needed. Gil’s touch was light, moving from Malcolm’s injured wrist to his forearm when he winced. 

“It’s nothing, Gil,” Malcolm dismissed. “I fell down the stairs before you called, that’s all.” 

“Obviously you didn’t go to a doctor,” Gil surmised, letting go of Malcolm once they were at the car and walking around to the driver’s side. “Don’t you think you should have?” 

“Gil, come on, how long have you known me?” Malcolm answered as they both got into the car. “I’m not going to see a doctor just because I rolled my ankle falling down some stairs.” 

“Judging from what happened out there, it’s more than that,” Gil answered as he put the car in drive and pulled away from the curb. 

“I’m fine,” Malcolm reiterated, refusing to argue Gil’s point since he knew he couldn’t. “I’ll be sitting down most of the time we’re at the office, and it’ll feel better then.” 

“Oh, it’ll feel better a lot sooner than that,” Gil promised as he went in the opposite direction of the precinct. 

“Why? Where are we going?” Malcolm asked, though he thought he already knew. 

“I’m taking you to get checked out,” Gil answered. “Yeah, I know, you don’t like hospitals or doctors, but you said you wanted to be a part of this team, and any member of my team has to have a doctor’s approval after an injury to be allowed to come back to work.” 

Malcolm thought about arguing, since that rule was meant for those who would be out in the field, but he held his tongue, allowing Gil to have this small victory. No matter what he said, he wasn’t going to get out of seeing a doctor, so why even bother? Settling back in the black leather seat, Malcolm allowed his mind to drift as the scenery of New York’s streets sailed by. 

  
  


**TBC**

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**II**

  
  
  


Humoring Gil ended up being more of an ordeal than Malcolm had thought it would be. Not only had Gil taken him to get checked out, but once that was done and they’d gone back to the precinct, he’d set Malcolm up in the conference room, making him sit at the head of the table so that it was easier for him to elevate his now-bandaged ankle on a separate chair and look at the whiteboard at the same time. Gil had then taken the doctor-mandated crutches and placed them against the wall, just far enough out of Malcolm’s reach that he would either have to ask for help to get to them or limp-hop over to them, the former being something Gil thought Malcolm wouldn’t do, and the latter being something he thought Malcolm would get caught doing before he actually managed to get to them. 

As a result, Malcolm was in the conference room, dutifully obeying orders, and staring at the information they’d managed to gather so far. The victim’s picture, her body scrunched on the cold concrete floor, hung at the center, with their thoughts and theories spread out around it, each with a line drawn between it and the picture. So far their theories weren’t many, but Malcolm didn’t think they needed to be; it was obvious to both him and Gil what this killer was after. Now he just had to explain why to Dani and JT. 

He was in the middle of reviewing his notes, alternately staring between the legal pad and the whiteboard, when Dani walked in, a file folder and a fresh cup of coffee in hand. “You okay?” she asked, her gaze briefly flicking to his elevated foot as she walked around the table, sitting in one of the chairs with her back to the window. 

“Yeah, fine,” he dismissed, barely looking up from what he was doing. “Twisted my ankle when I fell down some stairs this morning.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dani wince, but she didn’t make any further comment on it. “This,” he added, waving at his position and the crutches against the wall to his left, “is unnecessary.” 

“But good luck telling Gil that,” Dani added, a small smile on her face. “I get it. After Berkhead gave me a concussion, Gil made me take the rest of the week and the entire weekend off. I tried having the medics tell him that wasn’t necessary, but he refused to listen.” She paused, smiling a little more and giving a brief laugh. “I’ve found that it’s just easier to humor him; he’s such a mother-hen that it’s not worth arguing with him.”

“I heard that,” Gil said, carrying his own mug of steaming coffee and a notepad. He pulled up a chair, putting his back to the rest of the office, and placed his stuff down. Pointing a finger at Malcolm he added, “And I’m pretty sure I heard the doctor say that your ankle was sprained, not twisted, and that you needed to stay off it for the next few weeks to let it heal.” Malcolm opened his mouth to argue, but Gil rushed on, “ _And,_ if you don’t follow his instructions to the T, I will happily send you home and then I’ll tell your mother all about your accident and let _her_ handle you.” 

Ignoring Dani’s smirk, Malcolm studied Gil for a moment. His brows furrowed. “Did you just threaten to tell my mom on me?” he asked, wanting to make sure he was right. 

Dani snorted, clearly unable to hide her humor any longer, but Malcolm kept his attention fixed on his mentor. Gil, completely unfazed, didn’t even blink, answering, “Yeah.” 

Malcolm stared at Gil for a moment, unable to think of anything that wouldn’t make the situation worse. Gil was clearly being ridiculous about this whole thing, but he was well aware that he wasn’t going to be able to convince Gil of that any time soon. Shutting his mouth, which had dropped open from shock, Malcolm conceded, holding up his hands in surrender and saying, “Okay. I got it.”

Just then, JT walked in, a very large cup of coffee in his hand and his notepad peeking out of his jacket pocket. He stopped, his gaze flipping between Gil and Malcolm like he sensed something happening between them. “Do I even wanna know what’s goin’ on in here?” he asks, his eyebrows raised. 

“Gil is being a mother-hen and annoying Bright,” Dani answered before any of the rest of them could, sounding like Ainsley whenever she ratted him out to their mother. 

Marginally relaxing, JT continued to his spot, choosing to sit by Dani and saying, “Been there.” 

“Anyways,” Gil said, his tone changing the subject. He sat down, pulling his mug with him. “What have you guys found out?” 

“Vic’s name is Alicia Doherty, age 26,” JT answered, pulling his notepad out of his coat pocket as though to consult it. He laid it open on the table, then sat back in his chair, nursing his coffee. “Born and raised in the city, her parents are dead, no siblings.” 

“Yeah,” Dani interjected, “Doesn’t seem like she had too many people who would miss her if she disappeared. Her boss reported her missing when she hadn’t shown up for work for a couple of days.”

“Her boss?” Malcolm asked, making notes as they talked. “Where did she work?” 

Consulting her notes, Dani answered, “Uh, Eleven Madison Park.” 

Malcolm eyebrows rose. “That’s an excellent restaurant.” He hadn’t been there in awhile, and he hadn’t eaten much when he’d gone, but it had definitely left an impression. 

“You realize that no one else in this room could afford to eat there, right?” JT reminded him. 

A noise under the table, quickly followed by a grimace from JT, hinted that someone had kicked the veteran under the table. If Malcolm had to place bets, he would say it had been Dani; Gil would have verbally called him out, while Dani was perfectly okay with physically doing it. 

“That’s a pretty swanky place,” Gil said, stating the obvious. His glare was a silent warning to JT before he looked over at Dani. “Did she have an in or was she just lucky?” 

“It’s lucky to work at a place like that?” JT asked, doubt in his voice. “Don’t you just have to apply?” 

“Mostly, yes,” Malcolm agreed, “but, sometimes it’s a good starting point for someone who wants to be a restauranteur or possibly even a chef.”

“I’m guessing it was just luck,” Dani said, her tone dismissive. “From what we’ve been able to dig up on this vic so far, she didn’t seem to have lofty aspirations; she was simply doing things to get through day-to-day.” 

Intrigued by that observation, Malcolm made a note of it. It was possible that, while this killer was toying with Malcolm, he still had a type. Someone with little to live for, someone who was alone, it was a common type for a lot of killers. 

“Does she have any connection with the Bertrands?” Gil asked. 

“Not that we can find,” JT answered, his gaze briefly tracking to his partner before returning to his boss. 

“It’s possible that Miss Bertrand would dine at the restaurant where Alicia worked, but we haven’t confirmed that yet,” Dani added. 

“Even if that were the connection between them, it wouldn’t matter,” Malcolm dismissed, shaking his head. “Olivia is a lawyer; she probably takes clients there for business meetings or dines there when her brother comes into town. The restaurant is a coincidence; an easy place to take her from.” 

“Let me guess, you knew Olivia Bertrand?” JT surmised. 

Malcolm nodded. “She was one of my closest friends up until college.” 

“What makes you so sure the vic and Miss Bertrand aren’t connected?” Dani quickly interjected as JT opened his mouth to say something snide. 

“I didn’t say they weren’t connected,” Malcolm corrected. “I said that it didn’t matter if they were because in this case, the killer’s point is about the position the victim was in. Leaving her in Olivia’s house was him making sure I received his message.” 

“What message is that?” Gil asked, pivoting a little to his left so he could face Malcolm a bit easier. 

“I don’t know,” Malcolm admitted, feeling frustrated by that fact. Whatever the killer was trying to tell him seemed so very important, but he couldn’t quite grasp it. “Not yet.” 

“How do you know the killer is targeting you?” JT sat forward, engaging more in the conversation now that the topic had changed. Clearly, he found the idea of the killer trying to grab Malcolm’s attention intriguing, which Malcolm tried not to be offended by. “How do you know this isn’t all some big coincidence?” 

“Forgetting for a moment that you cops are notorious for not believing in coincidences, I find it incredibly hard to believe that the killer just happens to leave a body, an exact match to the girl in my nightmares, in the basement of the house of my childhood friend, a house, I may add, that I spent a lot of time in as a kid. Don’t you?” 

“Only you could have nightmares about girls,” JT mumbled, though all of them heard it. 

Dani rolled her eyes at her partner, then put her back to him. “You said that our vic was an exact match to the girl in your nightmares,” she prompted, taking out her notepad and pen. “Was she one of your dad’s victims? Is that why you keep dreaming about her?” 

Malcolm looked at Gil, his heart beginning to race. Gil’s responding expression was comforting and supportive, a mix that so far only Gil had learned to master. He gave a small nod, encouraging Malcolm to explain things. Gil shrugged, indicating he thought they might as well tell the other two about his nightmares. Still, Malcolm was hesitant. There were very few people in his life that he’d told this story to. It wasn’t a secret, per se, but it was something so closely guarded that Malcolm felt protective of it anyways. 

The pen in his hand began to bump against the table as his tremor worsened. Dropping it, Malcolm then clenched his hand, welcoming the pain it brought from his injured wrist. Grabbing hold of his right hand with his left, he did his best to force it to stop shaking. Based on past experience alone, he didn’t hold out any hope of that working, but at least it was less obvious. 

Dani looked first at his hand and then at his face, her brown eyes expressing her sympathy. She may not know what his nightmares entailed, but she knew what they did to him; she’d seen their effects more than a few times since they started working together. She hesitated, clearly not wanting to push him, but also needing to know more. 

“We don’t know,” Gil finally answered, reprieving Malcolm from having to do so. Since Gil knew full well what he dreamed about and why, Malcolm was entirely okay with his surrogate father filling in for him. 

Doubt mingled with surprise crossed both the detective’s faces. They looked at one another, then Dani said, “You know what he’s talking about?” 

Gil nodded. “When Bright called the cops on his dad, it was because he’d found a girl locked in a box in his basement.” Gil briefly looked at Malcolm, checking on him, but Malcolm ducked his head. He may have to be here for this, but he couldn’t look at anyone while it was happening. “When we got there, we couldn’t find her. Some people, including Malcolm’s mother and the police, thought she was a figment of his imagination because there was no evidence of her existence. The Surgeon claimed she had never been there because it wouldn’t have looked good for his insanity plea.” 

“What about you?” Dani asked, evidently taking the lead in the investigation. Although JT was silent, out of the corner of his eye, Malcolm saw that he was just as involved in the conversation as his partner was; he was simply okay with letting her ask all the questions. “What did you think?” 

Gil paused, no doubt weighing what he was going to say. “I believe that Malcolm thinks he saw a girl in the trunk,” he confirmed. “But,” he drew the word out, clearly hesitant to say more yet knowing he had to, “since there wasn’t any evidence of her, I joined his mother in trying to convince him that she hadn’t been real.” 

At that, Malcolm perked up. “I might be able to help with that,” he said, redirecting everyone’s attention back to him. Gil’s unwillingness to believe him had always been a sore point between them. Not that it created tension, as such, but it caused them both pain to think of it, so Malcolm turned the conversation back to their current case. Sort of. “It’s going to sound a little crazy-”

“Does anything you say sound otherwise?” JT quipped under his breath, briefly interrupting him. 

Ignoring him, Malcolm continued. “I think my father drugged me, with chloroform, to give him time to dispose of her and to keep me from calling the police any sooner.” He thought about adding his beliefs that he had a hand in disposing of her, but he kept those to himself for now. While JT seemed more wiling to accept him as a member of the team, Malcolm knew that it wouldn’t take much for him to change his mind; JT would easily believe him capable of being a murder like his father. “I think my father bought a station wagon and used it to transport her body from our house to wherever he chose to dump her.” 

There was a brief silence as they all absorbed this, then Dani said, “And you have proof of this?”, the tone in her voice showing her doubt. And that was the hitch, because while Malcolm instinctively knew it to be true, he had not one shred of evidence of any of this. His silence on that subject must have been enough of an answer, because she soon dropped her gaze and said, “I see.” 

“Look, I know what it sounds like,” he assured.

“I’m not so sure you do,” JT answered, eyeing Malcolm with suspicion. 

Malcolm smiled sardonically. “Believe me,” he said with more of a bite in his tone than he meant to add, his gaze sharpening on JT, “I know  _ exactly _ how it sounds. But I’m right.” 

“Okay,” Gil conceded. “Let’s say you are right. How does that help us now?” 

“I, I don’t know yet,” Malcolm admitted with a slight shake of his head. He sat back in the chair, giving him some distance between the conversation and himself. This case might involve him, personally, but he needed to be careful of how he reacted to things lest he get thrown off the case, or worse, arrested. 

“Alright, we’ll keep that on the back burner for now,” Gil said, his tone indicating they were done for now. “Dani, JT, go to the restaurant; interview the vic’s coworker and boss, see if you guys can find out anything that would be useful.” Out of habit, Malcolm prepared to join them, but then Gil threw him a look that threatened something if he tried. “Not you,” he said as the detectives left to do as they were told. “You are going to stay here; see what you can dig up.” 

“To support what theory?” Malcolm asked, needing specifics. If it came out with a bit of snark, there wasn’t anything he could do about that. Clenching his still-shaking hand, Malcolm released a slow, hopefully calming breath. 

Gil’s raised an eyebrow at him, his expression showing that he wasn’t amused, and would call him on his attitude if he continued in that same tone. “Whatever theory you can prove,” he said, then grabbed his things and left, allowing Malcolm to interpret that however he could. 

Malcolm let out a sigh then closed his eyes. Since he knew he couldn’t prove his father had drugged him without Martin’s help, he decided to work from the killer’s point of view. Letting out another sigh, Malcolm sat forward, picking up the pen and allowing himself to disappear into the psyche of their killer. It wasn’t a pleasant experience, but it was his job and he let the killer whisk him away as he told his story. 

  
  


**oOo**

Ever since her interview with her father, Ainsley Whitly had fallen down the rabbit hole that was The Surgeon’s history. She wasn’t trying to find information on him as a serial killer; she’d already done a fair amount of work before she’d gone to the interview, so she already had a good grasp on that. No, what Ainsley was currently researching was Martin Whitly, the man. She’d started with birth certificates, tax records, delving into him as a person as deeply as she would any other research project. She knew both Mother and Malcolm thought this was a bad idea, that she was falling for her father’s charms, but Ainsley ignored them, still entirely convinced that she was the best equipped of them to handle Martin Whitly. 

Ainsley had taken a break from her research for the day so she could transfer her notes to her computer. Her legal pad was filled with scribbles: thoughts, ideas, important dates or facts she needed to look further into. Everything that she could or would think of when she went back to researching her father was written down in her messy scrawl. She probably should learn to code her notes as that would not only make writing them easier, but it would stop any nosy coworkers from stealing her story, but she was honestly too busy to learn how. 

She was in the middle of typing up her third page of notes when her phone rang. Ainsley didn’t even bother checking to see who was calling. “Ainsley Whitly,” she answered, putting in her headphones so she could continue to use her hands to type. 

_ “How long have we been friends?” _ Olivia Bertrand’s voice asked on the other end. 

Ainsley would have smiled at her friend calling, but her tone suggested this wasn’t merely a social call. She rolled her eyes, pausing briefly in her transcribing, then answered, “I think it’s going on twenty years now?”

There was a pause as Liv no doubt did her own calculating, then she said,  _ “Close enough. And how many times have we spoken in the last, oh, I don’t know, three months?” _

“Does that include the weekend I spent at your house recently?”

_ “The point is, out of all that time, you couldn’t find one minute to mention that your brother was back in town?”  _

Ainsley briefly froze, caught off guard by the accusation she heard in her friend’s voice. Sitting back in her chair, she took a second to think about the question, then she answered, “Well, I assumed, what with the way you walked out of his life without so much as a glance behind you and didn’t bother talking to him for the next ten years, that you wouldn’t  _ want  _ to know when he came back.” 

Truth be told, Ainsley had forgiven Liv for abandoning Malcolm ten years ago. After seeing what it had done to her brother, it hadn’t been easy, but, in the end, Ainsley recognized that she couldn’t just give up on her friendship with Liv; not after all they had gone through together. Olivia Bertrand was the big sister she never had and had always wanted; she was family, and if hers had proved anything, it was that you don’t give up on family unless they’re a serial killer. 

Liv was quiet on the other line, her silence speaking volumes to Ainsley. Ainsley chewed on her tongue, debating apologizing for her remark, but she found she couldn’t take it back. She’d done nothing wrong, just gotten caught in the middle again. At least this time, it wasn’t between her mother and Malcolm; she supposed that was a step up from the norm. She waited a few minutes then, when a new thought occurred to her, she asked, “How did you find out, anyways?”

Liv sighed.  _ “There was a dead body in my basement this morning. Malcolm showed up with Lieutenant Gil Arroyo to ask some questions.”  _

At the words ‘dead body’, Ainsley perked up. She briefly wondered if the network had caught the story and hadn’t bothered to let her work it, or if they had deemed it not worth the coverage. It was possible that they hadn’t heard of the body, but she sincerely doubted that; much like lawyers who chased ambulances to pressure people for lawsuits, the network had someone who listened to the police scanners for news of dead bodies. 

She flipped the pages of her legal pad to an empty spot and then grabbed her pen, prepared to take notes. “A dead body?” she asked, not caring that she sounded so eager for the scoop. “Who was it? How did it get there?” she paused, her mind whirring. “If Malcolm came, then it means it was pretty bad,” she thought aloud, keeping her voice down in case someone heard. She looked above her cubicle walls. “Someone must have caught it.” 

_ “Actually, the whole thing was kept as quiet as possible. I suspect because of who my family was, but either way, chances are good that no one at your network was here to cover it.” _ She drew in a deep breath then slowly let it out.  _ “And as for the body, it wasn’t gruesome, certainly not enough for a profiler like Malcolm. It,” _ Liv hesitated as though she were planning gently on breaking some bad news.  _ “It was a girl, scrunched up like she’d been stuffed in a box.”  _ She hesitated again, then added,  _ “There was a note on the body.” _

“Holy crap!” Ainsley whispered, the meaning behind those words hitting her like a brick. “And Gil had Malcolm come take a look?” she asked, both curious and appalled. 

_ “Given Malcolm’s nightmares, it seemed to make sense, wouldn’t it? I mean, if this was all connected to Malcolm, to your father, then wouldn’t Malcolm be the perfect person to decide that?” _ Liv defended. She paused, then asked,  _ “I’m assuming Gil knows about the content of Malcolm’s nightmares?”  _

Ainsley nodded, then realized that Liv couldn’t see that. “Yeah, he does,” she answered, only half paying attention to her friend. Her mind ran through the implications, trying to connect the dots, though she hadn’t yet seen or heard of anything that would help her. Even so, Ainsley wrote down all she knew, knowing that the smallest thing could provide big answers later. “How did Malcolm take the news?” 

_ “I don’t know,” _ Liv answered, and Ainsley imagined an elegant red eyebrow being raised at her in surprise.  _ “By the time I saw him, he seemed normal. Well, normal for Malcolm at least. He  _ was _ limping, though, which I thought odd, but it was clear he didn’t want me saying anything about it, so I didn’t.” _

Ignoring that because it didn’t help her with her potential story, Ainsley asked, “What time was the body found? Who found it? Did you find it? Or was it one of your staff? Was there anything that could help identify the killer?” 

_ “Woah, Ains, slow down,” _ Liv bid, and Ainsley pictured her holding her hands up.  _ “I don’t know much, and what I do know isn’t going to help you get a story. Besides, I’m assuming the police wouldn’t like you sticking your nose into their business?”  _

Meaning that Liv thought  _ Malcolm  _ wouldn’t like her sticking her nose into the case. “Liv, when have I ever cared what Malcolm would want me to do?” 

_ “True. But, given the potential nature of this case, perhaps it would be good to leave it alone? Let your brother and the police sort this out without plastering it all over the tv?”  _

That wasn’t a bad argument, but Ainsley still had no intention of listening. She had a nose for sniffing out a story and right now it was going crazy. “No,” she said, “if there’s another killer out there, copying The Surgeon, or maybe even trying to draw him out, then the public needs to know about it.” 

Liv sighed, but didn’t argue further. She waited a minute then said, _ “You want to get lunch today?”  _

Now it was Ainsley’s turn to sigh. “I can’t. I have this thing for work that I want to get done.” 

_ “Surely the great Ainsley Whitly, Ace Reporter, can take a break to eat?” _ Liv pushed, her tone teasing, though Ainsley knew that her friend followed her work more diligently than her mother did. At least, she was fairly certain that Liv watched the reports with the sound on. She waited a minute in silence then added,  _ “Come on. Don’t make me come over there and physically drag you away. You know I’ll do it.” _

And she would, too. Ainsley had lost count of the times Liv had actually come, sometimes physically pulling her away from work and forcing her to eat. Biting her lip, Ainsley looked down at her notes. She’d made great progress in her transcriptions; theoretically, she could take a break. “Well,” she hedged, not really wanting to leave, but also not wanting to tell Liv no. “I guess I could take a small break for lunch.” 

_ “Great! Red Peony in an hour?”  _

“Sounds good,” Ainsley confirmed. “See you then.” She hung up before Liv could say more, not wanting or needing the conversation to drag out. 

Not two minutes later, Ainsley’s phone rings again, and this time she does check the caller ID. Rolling her eyes, Ainsley answered the call, “Hello Mother.” 

_ “What’s this I hear about your brother visiting Olivia Bertrand’s home this morning?” _

Ainsley rolled her eyes. “Look, Mother, I honestly only found out about it two minutes ago. I don’t know anything, and I don’t have time right now to talk it out with you. I have something I need to finish before lunch. If you want to know the particulars, call Malcolm.” 

Her mother sighed.  _ “Very well. But do me a favor, the next time you see her, tell Olivia Bertrand that I want her to stay away from Malcolm. She did enough damage ten years ago; we don’t need a repeat of that.”  _

“I’m not gonna tell her that,” Ainsley denied. “Malcolm is a grown man and can make his own decisions. If you don’t like them, that’s fine - take them up with him. Not with me. Now, I have to go. I’ll talk to you later.”

She hung up before her mother could get another word in. A part of her felt a little bad about throwing Malcolm to their mother, a little like throwing the weakest of the herd to the wolf, but she was seriously sick and tired of being in the middle. They either needed to work their issues out without her or come to an understanding without her. Either way, as long as she wasn’t involved, Ainsley was perfectly fine with whatever they decided. 

**TBC**

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) I am so sorry about taking so long to get this update out to you guys. I got sick and then we had a death in the family, and so it's been a bit crazy. But here it is at last. Thank you for your patience and I hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> 2) I apologize if any of the policies, procedures, etc aren't correct when it comes to crime scenes, ME's office, et al. Please know that I did try, but I am in neither of those fields and am basing all my knowledge on tv shows, lol.
> 
> 3) Please let me know what you think! I'd be curious to hear what you think of my OC, Olivia, what you're thinking or feeling after/while reading this, etc. Comments give me life :D 
> 
> M

**III**

  
  


At three o’clock, Malcolm stopped trying to figure the killer out. He’d allowed the evidence to take him where it could, but it hadn’t been far enough for him to discern anything of value. Tossing down the pen in frustration, he blew out a breath and ran his hands through his hair. In spite of what the others wanted, he couldn’t think of anything else than his earlier theory. Proof was still impossible to come by, but Malcolm knew he was right. 

And speaking of proof, Malcolm grabbed his phone from his pocket, fully intending on calling Claremont to be put on the visitor list for tomorrow. When he unlocked it, however, his phone rang, Ainsley’s name appearing on the caller ID. Doing his best not to feel disappointed that it wasn’t Olivia calling him, Malcolm tapped the answer button. “Ains, what’s up?” 

_ “Why didn’t you tell me that you guys found a dead body in Olivia’s basement?”  _

Surprised by the question, Malcolm took a minute to answer. Until this morning, he hadn’t even realized that his sister and his old friend were still in contact. Now she's acting like it's common knowledge? Obviously Olivia had called her. “I don’t know Ains, probably for the same reason that you didn’t tell me that you were still friends with her.” 

_ “Okay, first, I’m allowed to be friends with whomever I want and you know it,” _ Ainsley snapped; she had always been sensitive to either him or their mother telling her who her friends could or couldn't be. After awhile, Malcolm had stopped trying, thinking it best to allow Ainsley to choose her own friends and make her own mistakes, but Mother had yet to learn that, leaving his sister with a sore spot that never went away. “ _ And second, how did you find that out?”  _

“You were Olivia’s alibi,” he said, not rising to her bait, even though it stung a little to know that she hadn’t told him about this. Had she thought he would have been upset, or tried to forbid it? Or was it simply that she didn’t think he needed to know since he and Olivia hadn’t spoken in years? No matter which way it was spun, Malcolm knew it didn’t matter because the end result was the same. “Were you two having dinner last night?” 

_ “Yes,”  _ Ainsley answered.  _ “We met at Eleven Madison, had dinner, and drinks after. We chatted, but we both had early mornings so we called it a night around eight-thirty.”  _

Malcolm smiled. Of course his sister would know how to provide an alibi. He quickly wrote down what she’d said, not missing the restaurant name. “Do you guys eat there often?” 

_ “No. It’s, it’s hard to afford on a reporter’s salary.”  _

“Did you or Olivia pick the restaurant last night?” 

Ainsley paused, his question catching her attention for some reason.  _ “Why?”  _

Malcolm winced, knowing that he’d unintentionally given something away. Clenching his jaw, Malcolm smiled, allowing it to show in his tone. “No reason,” he said. “Just curious. I know how expensive it is and I know that you wouldn’t use Mother’s money for that.” 

_ “So, you’re checking in on me to make sure I’m being financially responsible?”  _ Ainsley’s tone was heavy with doubt and Malcolm couldn’t blame her. He was a terrible liar. It was often why he didn’t bother trying to lie to people, because he knew he wouldn’t be able to get away with it. If it hadn't been for the guy being in acute pain, Malcolm would never have been able to do it to Roger-the-stalker.  _ “Tell me what’s really going on.”  _

“No,” Malcolm denied. He had already given her more information than he had wanted to. He had no intention of giving her anything else. “I told you, Ains, I’m not going to be your source.” 

Growing up, Malcolm had always had a soft spot for his sister. She had been the light in the dark, the one person who hadn't been touched by their father's sins, and Malcolm had done his best to ensure things had stayed that way. Sometimes that meant collaborating with their mother to stop Ainsley from being able to visit or even hear from Martin Whitly, but most of the time it had merely been protecting her from seeing the damage their father had done to  _ him _ . 

It had worked in the beginning, but as Ainsley had gotten older, she had grown more curious, oftentimes searching out The Surgeon on purpose as an attempt to understand who her father was. Those were the times when she'd come to Malcolm, tears in her eyes, but questions on her tongue, doing her best to dig into the past while not bringing up anything too truly horrific for him. He'd answered her as best he could at the time, but more often than not, he hadn't been able to get much out; the traumas of his past had been too raw.

Why, then, it had surprised him when she'd announced she was going to college for journalism, Malcolm couldn't figure out. In hindsight, the clues had always been there, but in that moment all he'd been able to do was stare at his sister with his mouth hanging open. He'd supported her, of course, ignoring their mother who had strongly tried to dissuade her from her choice. During Ainsley's college years, Malcolm had patiently and happily read anything she'd sent him for review, offering constructive criticism each time. At first, he'd sent her things back riddled with red ink, his notes scribbled quickly in between classes at Harvard or training at Quantico. Each time she had learned from her mistakes and her writing had grown with every new piece she'd sent. 

When she had gotten a job at the network, Malcolm hadn't been surprised at all. Ainsley had a good eye for the news and often reported it fairly and keenly, while making her opinions known. It was a delicate balance that even most seasoned reporters couldn't accomplish and Malcolm had been proud of her. At one point, she had called him for information on a case that he had been involved in and it was then that he had put his foot down. Malcolm would never be someone she could leach information from, and he had told her so then and there. 

_ “Not even to catch a man who could be copying The Surgeon?”  _ Malcolm’s gut reaction was to ask how she knew that, but he quickly stopped himself. That was exactly what she wanted and why she had asked it like she had - get him to admit to something which she probably already knew. Sometimes his sister was too good of a reporter for his own good. When his silence stretched out, she got the hint. Letting out a sigh, she said,  _ “Olivia said that you were limping when she saw you. You okay?”  _

“I’m fine,” he answered, impatience seeping through into his voice. “I twisted my ankle before I came, that was all.” This time it was her turn to be silent. Clearly her main reason for calling had been to pump him for information on the body, and when that had failed, she hadn’t been sure what else to say. Looking up as Gil entered, he decided it was time to hang up. “Look, Ains, I have to go.” 

_ “Will you be at Mom’s tomorrow for dinner?”  _

Malcolm could think of several other places he’d rather be, but knew he wouldn’t be able to get away with skipping it so he said, “Yeah, see you then.” 

They both hung up without another word, a habit they had formed early on in their lives when talking with one another. All the small things that people would say - things like I love you, or I’m sorry - were things they both already knew and didn’t need daily confirmation of, so they simply hung up and left it at that. 

“Let me guess,” Gil said, placing his mug on the table then sitting down. “She got word of the body.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Did you give her anything?” 

On some level, it bothered Malcolm that Gil thought it necessary to ask, but at the same time, he understood. “Not intentionally,” Malcolm hedged with a small wince on his face. When Gil raised his eyebrows questioningly, he elaborated. “I may have been a bit overcurious about the restaurant she ate at with Olivia. It won’t take much for her to use that and to figure out that one of the staff has been killed.” 

“No, it won’t,” Gil replied on a sigh. He may not approve of Ainsley’s profession on the whole, but Malcolm knew that Gil thought her very good at her job; sometimes a little too good. “Well there’s nothing we can do about that now,” he said, resigned and moving on. 

He was about to say more when Malcolm’s phone vibrated on the table, letting them know he had another phone call. “Sorry,” he said, though he wasn’t entirely for what he was apologizing, then picked up the phone. He didn’t recognize the number that flashed on his screen and his confusion came through in his tone as he said, “Hello?”

_ “Malcolm?” _ Olivia’s voice confirmed.  _ “It’s Olivia. I hope I’m not calling at a bad time?” _

Malcolm smiled more warmly than he had expected upon hearing her voice. Briefly looking over at Gil who’s eyebrows were raised in a silent question. “No, it’s not a bad time,” he assured. “How can I help you Miss Bertrand?” 

There was a pause on the other line then,  _ “I’m assuming Lieutenant Arroyo is sitting near you?” _ she surmised, rightly guessing that he wouldn’t be so formal with her otherwise.  _ “Can you meet me at the house tonight? Say, around seven?”  _

Checking his watch and seeing that was a little less than four hours from now, Malcolm had no problem answering, “Yeah, I can do that. Is there anything wrong?” 

_ “No, not at all,” _ Olivia assured, her tone a small smile on her face.  _ “I, um, I just thought we should talk. Catch up, you know.” _ She paused then said,  _ “Hmm, maybe I should meet you somewhere. I’m not sure you should be climbing the stoop stairs.”  _

Not needing another person to unnecessarily fret over him, Malcolm quickly said, “I’ll be fine.” Movement out of the corner of his eye drew his gaze to Gil who was giving him the ‘wrap it up’ signal. “I’m sorry, but I have to go. I’ll see you at seven.”

_ “See you at seven,” _ she confirmed, then hung up. 

Gil waited a minute then said, “So she wants to meet up with you.” He waited, but when Malcolm lowered his gaze and refused to comment on it, he moved on. “Dani and JT are finished at the restaurant. They’re grabbing a late lunch for all of us then they’ll be on their way.”

At the mention of lunch, Malcolm looked up, something close to fear making his heart beat faster. Since childhood, Malcolm has never liked eating or drinking things he couldn’t see being prepared. It had formed during his father’s active periods, after Malcolm had found out who his father really was, and had stayed with him ever since. Malcolm had learned ways to negate some of his paranoia, but it had mostly been when it came to coffee. He’d grown to learn to trust some of the more upscale restaurants and his mother’s cook, but for the most part, Malcolm simply didn’t eat food that he didn’t prepare himself. 

Gil, of course, knew all of this, and was usually pretty mindful of Malcolm’s idiosyncrasies. The fact that he had okayed this without consulting Malcolm first surprised him. He thought about bringing it up, but in the end decided it wasn’t worth it. He had learned to trust Gil, to love Gil; if Gil thought this place safe to eat at, Malcolm would believe him. Besides, they had more important things to focus on. 

“Has Edrisa finished her report?” he asked, setting his phone on the table before leaning back into the chair. 

“Yeah, she’ll bring it up soon and go over it with us then.” 

Malcolm nodded to show he’d heard, but didn’t respond. Over time, Edrisa had grown more comfortable around him. She was still quirky in her mannerisms and side comments, but that was simply who she was, and since it was one of the things that had drawn Malcolm to her in the first place, he didn’t want that to change. 

Instead, the changes between them had been small. She had never had a problem being close to him, but now he didn’t mind it; she wasn’t intrusive or overbearing, like some could be, and when she looked over his shoulder, it was usually because they were both fascinated by what he saw. Whenever she touched him, Malcolm found the sensation to be comforting rather than distressing. He had never been a fan of people touching him, and at first that had been true for Edrisa. But then he noticed that, after the Boutsikaris case, she was careful to only do it when she was concerned about him. A couple of times, it had been her gentle touch on his arm that had brought him back from a particularly troubling memory, her brown eyes looking at him with worry.

“Have you managed to find another angle to the case?” Gil asked, bringing Malcolm back to the present. 

As much as Malcolm wished he could tell Gil otherwise, he said, “I’ve looked at all of it from every angle I can think of, Gil, and I can’t find anything else that fits. Alicia was left there for me. The killer wants me involved in this.”

“Do you know why?” 

“It could be that he wants to taunt me about the girl in the box, or that he knows what happened and he wants to rub that in my face, or it could be that he wants information that he thinks I have,” Malcolm surmised, knowing none of that was going to satisfy Gil. The cop in Gil wanted a straight answer, not guesses, and the protective father in Gil wanted the killer to target someone else, neither of which Malcolm could help him with. “Look, I know that you think there’s something else going on here-”

“-just because I  _ wanted  _ you to be wrong, doesn’t mean I thought you were,” Gil interrupted and corrected in one. 

“I know you don’t like the idea of this guy coming after me, but it may in fact be a good thing.” Gil’s skeptical expression conveyed that he heartily disagreed, but he kept his mouth closed, allowing Malcolm to finish his thought before he commented. “Most people aren’t able to handle a killer targeting them. I can. Yes, he’s targeting one of the nightmares I’ve had since I was eleven, but I can handle it. I can handle him.” 

If Gil’s eyebrows raised in challenge were anything to go by, he wasn’t convinced by that declaration, but he’s stopped from saying anything by the entrance of JT, Dani and the food. Recognizing the smell as a restaurant Malcolm frequents, he smiled; he should have known that Gil wouldn’t have had them pick up from any random place. Malcolm nods his thanks and his apology at his friend, and then they all settle in to eat. 

They are just finished cleaning up when Gil’s phone chimed with a notification. “Edrisa is on her way up,” he announced after he looks at the message he’d received. Another chime, and this time Gil smiles after reading the message. He doesn’t feel the need to tell them what it is, though, before he sends a text back. “Why don’t we all take five, then we’ll meet back here and go over the report.” 

“Does that actually mean all of us?” Malcolm asked, only half teasing. He was doing his best to humor Gil, but he was beginning to feel restless and could use a bit of crutching around time. 

Giving Malcolm a look that clearly called him a smartass, Gil went over to the wall and grabbed Malcom’s crutches. He layed them against an open spot at the table, then left without a word, taking his Yankees mug with him.

Not one to argue with a chance like that, Malcolm gently disentangled himself from the chairs. At some point during his time at the precinct, Malcolm’s right knee had locked into place and he was careful as he bent it, wincing when pain greeted him.

“You good?” Dani asked after watching him. She’d stayed behind, ostensibly to gather her things, but Malcolm knew it was a ruse. She was watching over him, probably for Gil. 

“Fine,” he answered, leveraging himself into a standing position. God, it felt good to not be in the chair. With all the blood rushing back into his foot, his ankle began to throb with efficiency. It had been quietly throbbing the entire time he’d been sitting, but now it was doing it with a vigor that told Malcolm he should try to keep it elevated as much as possible. 

When he got back to the conference room, his usual spots were empty. To be more accurate, the chairs were, but the table space in front of them was not. His notes still lay in their normal position, but there was a new file folder lying next to them, a sealed bottle of water above it all. Malcolm sighed. Clearly someone thought he needed to drink more water since he had yet to request some while he had been visiting. Gil, once again back in his seat with his back to the precinct, watched him notice the changes, but said nothing. 

Malcolm had just gotten settled, his crutches once again out of his reach courtesy of Gil, when Edrisa entered, followed by JT and Dani. “Heads up!” she called and Malcolm had barely enough time to realize she was talking to him before she was tossing something at him. Instinct had him raising his hand, catching the something before it slammed into his face. When cold instantly greeted him, he looked up at the ME, eyebrows raised in a question. She shrugged. “A little birdie told me you could use it.” 

Knowing exactly who the little birdie was, Malcolm looked at Gil. Gil’s response was to challenge him back with raised eyebrows of his own. “Doctor’s orders,” was all he said, and all he had to say in order to get Malcolm to place the ice pack on his ankle. 

“You okay, Bright?” Edrisa asked as she placed her report at the end of the table opposite him. Her gaze briefly flicked to his elevated foot before she went back to perusing her file. It made Malcolm smile that she had followed in the cops’ footsteps in calling him by his last name rather than his first; it was certainly a step up from her formal ‘Mr. Bright’. 

“I’m fine,” he assured for the millionth time. He’d answered that question so much that he was tempted to write his answer on his forehead so he wouldn’t have to continue repeating himself. “Is that your report?” he asked to change the subject. 

“Yes,” she answered definitively, placing her hands possessively on the papers spread out on the table. “But you have your own copy,” she added, using her head to point to the file folder sitting before him. “I figured it would be better for you to have a separate one.” 

Malcolm almost asked better for whom, but he stopped himself, knowing full well that the answer was better for all of them. It saved the rest of them from having to stop him from getting up; it saved him from getting up; and it saved Edrisa from being concerned about whether or not he should be walking around to join the rest of them in looking over the results. 

“So what do we got?” Gil asked, taking over the conversation.

“Well, as expected cause of death was suffocation,” Edrisa answered on a sigh, seeming to be almost bored with the predicted result. “The culprit was one not often found in murder victims, though - nitrogen gas.” 

“Really?” Malcolm asked, looking up at her to confirm. If there was one thing Malcolm was certain of it was that The Surgeon hadn’t killed anyone by poisoning them with gas; it was too dull a method for his curious mind. If that was truly how Alicia had died, then it meant that their killer wasn’t copying The Surgeon, which meant that he wasn’t trying to call Martin Whitly out. 

“Weird, right?” Edrisa asked, her face lighting up with an excited smile. While the suffocation wasn’t circumspect, the reason for the end result was. Malcolm smiled at her, partially sharing in her excitement. 

“Care to let the rest of us in?” JT said, his gaze bouncing between Edrisa and Malcolm. 

“From all I’ve ever studied, The Surgeon never used poison gas to kill a victim,” Edrisa answered before Malcolm did. “If our killer is using nitrogen gas to suffocate his victims, then that means that he’s not copying The Surgeon.” 

“Which means that he’s after me, personally,” Malcolm added. 

“Isn’t that a bit of a leap?” JT asked, looking between Malcolm and Gil as though he were wanting to know what he was missing. 

“Not really, no,” Malcolm answered. He shifted, sitting up as much as he could without lowering his leg. “We already know that the killer wants my attention - the note he left at the crime scene makes that obvious. At first, I was willing to entertain the idea that maybe he was copying my father, trying to draw him out. But, like Edrisa said, The Surgeon didn’t gas his victims; he wanted them to feel as much pain as possible, conducting experiments on them the way a scientist toys around with different chemicals and studies the results. Which means that our victim was left specifically for me. He’s trying to draw me in because he wants something from me.” 

“Like what?” Edrisa asked, her attention focused solely on Malcolm. 

“I don’t know,” Malcolm admitted, shaking his head. “It could be that he wants to taunt me with the girl in the box.” His hand started shaking at the mention of her, and Malcolm dropped his pen and placed his hand in his lap to hide it. Judging from the expressions of everyone in the room, they all noticed his reaction, but they said nothing, each seemingly content to keep their opinions to themselves for the moment. “Or, it could be that he thinks I know something and he wants to get it out of me.” 

“How is leaving a body and a note with your name on it going to do that?” Dani asked, her tone implying that she wasn’t seeing the connection. 

“It isn’t,” Gil answered, no doubt seeing where this was going. “But our killer could be working up to that.” 

Malcolm nodded his agreement. He saw worry begin to creep into Gil’s eyes and he did his best to ignore it. Gil’s instinct to protect Malcolm had been honed over twenty years. Malcolm suspected that it had started the night Gil had arrested Doctor Whitly, and now it was screaming at Gil not to allow the killer to get to him. The trouble was, that wasn’t going to work. Gil couldn’t protect Malcolm 24/7. Not only didn’t he have the manpower, or authority, for that, but Malcolm wasn’t going to allow it. They needed to catch this guy and if using him as bait was the best way to do it, then that was what Malcolm was going to do. 

Pushing aside those thoughts, Malcolm turned back to Edrisa’s report. He’d stopped looking at it when she’d mentioned the cause of death and he wanted to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. “Her hair was dyed?” he asked when he read the notation. 

“Yes,” the ME confirmed, “within hours of dying. The killer dyed her hair himself, quite expertly too, I must say. I’ve seen worst dye jobs from people who consider themselves professionals, and let me tell you, this guy could teach them a thing or two, because he did a much better job than they ever could.” Upon noticing everyone eyeing her, she stopped talking. Once again Malcolm smiled. Though he knew that it got on JT’s nerves, he really liked it when Edrisa did that. It lessened the brevity of the situation, cutting through the tension that Malcolm could feel forming.

“He dressed her up to look the part,” Malcolm surmised, now looking at the pictures that had been taken of the victim. He could see it now. The differences were subtle, almost impossible to spot unless you knew what to look for. It spoke for his shock while at the crime scene that he hadn’t noticed it then. He should have, and that was a problem for him. 

“Exactly,” Edrisa agreed, pointing at him with a pen. 

“There’s no more we can do tonight,” Gil said after a full two minutes of silence. “Go home and when we come back tomorrow, we’ll start going through The Surgeon’s files. See if we can find a connection between him and our killer.” Malcolm opened his mouth to argue that they had a connection, but Gil held up his hand. “I know that you think it’s about the girl that we never found, but since we have no evidence of that, I’d like to see if we can find him another way.” 

While everyone packed up and got ready to go, Malcolm’s phone began ringing. Recognizing the number as Olivia’s, he answered with far less confusion. “Olivia, hey, I am just about to head over to see you, what’s up?” 

_ “I just wanted to let you know that I sent a car to pick you up,”  _ she said, her tone casual, like she did this often.  _ “Taxi’s aren’t always easy to get, and I thought this might be easier all around.”  _ She paused, then added,  _ “I hope that’s okay?”  _

Malcolm slightly smiled. While Olivia was very different from most of the women within their social circle, she did share some traits with them. Having a personal driver to take her anywhere she wished was apparently one advantage from her childhood which Olivia was not planning on doing without. “That’s fine,” he assured, used to having his mother send Adolpho to fetch him. “I should be done here in ten minutes, give or take.” 

_ “Henry should be pulling up soon, so that works out well. I will see you soon, then.”  _

“Yeah, see you soon,” he answered then hung up, putting his phone into his jacket pocket so that it was easier to get to it while he was using the crutches. 

“So, it’s Olivia now?” Dani teased, a small smile on her face. Everyone else had quickly packed up and left while he’d been on the phone, making it just the two of them left in the room. She grabbed his crutches for him, then stood to the side to wait for him to stand.

“Yeah,” Malcolm answered, leveraging himself out of the chairs once again. “We were friends growing up. Don’t make a thing out of it,” he added when her smile grew. 

Dani nodded, acquiescing with his request. “You need any help getting out of here?” 

“No, I got it. Thanks, though.” 

She smiled. “Had enough people fawning over you for one day, huh?” 

“Definitely,” he answered, grateful that she understood. “What time are we starting in the morning?” 

“Gil didn’t say, but since the rest of the working class starts at eight, I’d say that’s a good bet.” 

“Right,” Malcolm said, briefly ducking his head in embarrassment. He should have already guessed that. Although he didn’t normally join them until later in the day, he knew very well that they all started their work days at around eight a.m.. 

Dani chuckled at him, amusement in the sound. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Bright,” she said, standing behind her desk to show this was where she stopped. 

“Yeah, see you in the morning,” he answered, offering a smile then heading out. 

Malcolm didn’t hold out much hope in their finding a connection between their current killer and his father, but he wasn’t about to miss going through everything the police had on The Surgeon either. Crutching his way out of the building, Malcolm made a call Claremont and scheduled a visit with his father. No matter what they did or didn’t find in the morning, Malcolm knew there was only one person who could give them the answers they needed. He just hoped he could convince Doctor Whitly to cooperate. 

**TBC**

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

**IV**

  
  


The November air was chilly while Malcolm stood outside Olivia’s door, waiting to be let in. Since he’d been inside all day, and the car he’d gotten into was warm, he hadn’t really noticed the cold setting in, but he did now and he shivered a little inside his coat as the crisp breeze brushed against the skin of his face. Though the month had just begun, the nights were already reaching freezing temperatures, hinting at the winter that was to come. He wasn’t looking forward to it to say the least.

It took far longer than he would have thought for the housekeeper to answer the door since he was expected, but Malcolm didn’t mind as it gave him a chance to collect himself before he saw Olivia. He hadn’t begun to feel nervous until he’d gotten into the car she’d provided. Then, he had had time enough to think about their childhood and their parting. 

Even though it was ten years ago, thinking of the last time he’d heard from Olivia still hurt. She and her mother had been such an integral part of his life for so long that her sudden, seemingly permanent, removal from it had been devastating. It had felt like losing his father all over again, the result of which being that his mother and sister had watched him like hawks to ensure that he didn’t revert back to the broken boy he’d been when The Surgeon had been arrested. To this day, he still didn’t know why she’d ceased all communication with him. Hopefully, he would be able to find out tonight. 

“Good evening, Mr. Bright,” the housekeeper greeted as she stepped aside and allowed him to enter the foyer. “May I take your coat?” He smiled politely at her, awkwardly shifting to lay his crutches against the nearest wall so that he could shed his coat and hand it to her. Her expression was almost apologetic as she took it from him, but all she said was, “Miss Bertrand is in the small library. I’m told you know how to get there?” 

“I do, yes,” Malcolm confirmed. “Thank you.” The housekeeper nodded, but said nothing before walking away, leaving Malcolm to join Olivia on his own. 

Turning to his left, Malcolm headed for what the family has always referred to as the small library. The room was an office, at best, but the Bertrand men had slowly gathered books that were appropriate for their business and stocked them in the room as well. Over time, one Bertrand or another had added little things here and there, eventually leading to its evolution into a small library, but none of that changed the fact that it was really just an office with a lot of books in it. 

Thinking it only polite, Malcolm knocked before he entered. The door, a thick, dark mahogany-stained oak, had been left partially open, allowing him to gently nudge it open without having to go through too much extra effort. 

The first thing that greeted him was heat and Malcolm soaked it in like a cold sponge. Although Olivia clearly had the furnace on, she had set it somewhat low like her parents had done before her. Whereas half of the fireplaces in Malcolm’s house were barely used anymore, almost all of them in Olivia’s were taken advantage of every winter. The one in this room lay to Malcolm’s right, the extra warmth welcome, and the smell bringing back memories of happier times. 

The second thing that greeted him was a dog with medium length, brown and white freckled fur. Malcolm vaguely remembered JT mentioning that Olivia had a border collie named Holly and assumed that was who was blocking his path right now. Upon his entrance, the dog got up from her position at Olivia’s feet and stood in front of her master. She didn’t growl at Malcolm, but he could tell the dog would take it badly if he took another step forward so he stayed where he was, settling into as comfortable a position as he could while he waited for Olivia to call her dog back to her. 

“Holly,” Olivia said, her eyes glued to some papers in front of her, “come here.” The dog waited a second then turned and went back to her master’s side, sitting by the loveseat on which Olivia was curled, and keeping her attention focused solely on Malcolm. 

Briefly looking up from her stack of papers, Olivia smiled at him. “Sorry about that. She’s a bit wary of strangers at first, but she warms up quickly if you let her.” Her focus once again on her work, Olivia idly stroked her hand down the dog’s back a couple of times while she continued to read. “Sorry,” she apologized again, “let me finish this real quick and then I’ll be all yours. Please sit.” She pointed him towards the armchair which sat just to the left of the loveseat, an ottoman in front of it, and then looked at Holly and commanded, “Go lay down.” The dog didn’t go far, but it was enough to allow him to join Olivia without tripping over her companion. Setting her work onto the coffee table in front of her, Olivia finally focused fully on Malcolm, her brows furrowing as she took in his crutches. 

“Something tells me the furniture placement isn’t accidental,” Malcolm observed with a smile as he made his way to the designated spot. He had only been in this room a few times while growing up, but he never remembered the ottoman being a part of the decor. In fact, if he wasn’t mistaken, it belonged in the second parlor where the family tended to gather after dinner. 

“Given how badly you were limping this morning, I thought it would be a good idea for you to have something to put your feet on while we talked,” Olivia unabashedly answered as she gathered all of her files and piled them onto the the desk that lay on the other side of the room. Grabbing what Malcolm assumed was a cold cup of coffee from the table, she sat cross-legged on the loveseat, tucking her fuzzy-socked feet under her. Her auburn hair was pulled up into a mess ponytail, wisps of it falling down to frame her face. “Seems I was right,” she added with a teasing smile. 

“Aren’t you always,” he asked as he placed his crutches against the wall behind the armchair. After slowly lowering himself onto the armchair, Malcolm did his best to hold in a sigh of relief. Though he hadn’t really done much other than sit all day, the chairs at the precinct were not what a normal person would consider comfortable. His back ached from the lack of support combined with the use of the crutches, leaving him feeling more tired than normal. 

“True,” she allowed, smiling. Then her brows furrowed again. “You weren’t injured here, were you?” 

“No,” he assured, “I managed to do this shortly before coming here this morning. One of the stairs in my loft snapped under my weight and down I went.” 

“That seems a little odd,” Olivia observed. “Don’t take this the wrong way Malcolm, but you aren’t exactly a heavy person.” 

Now that she said that, Malcolm realized she had a point. Up until now, he really hadn’t had time to think about the incident; he’d been so busy with the crime scene and the killer, that he’d completely pushed the whole thing out of his mind. But Olivia was right. The stairs in his loft were thick; they had to be if they were going to support people going up and down them at least twice a day for however many years. There was no reason whatsoever why that one stair had broken under him, unless it had already been cracked before. How that would have happened, Malcolm didn’t know. He’d have to ask his mother if she’d had Adolpho grab something from the upper loft while he’d been gone and the driver had accidentally done something to the stair while he’d been there.

“I’m surprised you went to the doctor to get checked out,” she said when his silence carried on a little longer than it probably should have. 

Malcolm refocused on her, smiling. “Normally, I wouldn’t have, but Gil didn’t really give me much of an option when we left here this morning.” 

“Ah yes, Lieutenant Arroyo. It was nice to finally meet him, though I could have wished for better circumstances. Having heard so much about him over the years, I’ve always wanted to meet him.” Olivia’s gaze flicked down to his right leg, then to the empty ottoman. “You should use that,” she said, sitting back into the cushions on the loveseat and putting some distance between them. 

“Why am I here, Olivia?” he asked, inwardly wincing at the anger he could hear in his voice; he’d meant to ask that with far less emotion. 

At first she didn’t answer, her gaze still pointedly flickering between his leg and the ottoman. Sighing, Malcolm elevated his foot then went back to looking at her expectantly. Now it was her turn to sigh, and she suddenly went from looking like a comfortable friend to someone who was weighed down by their life. “I wanted to apologize for how I left,” she admitted. She set the cup back onto the table, then unfolded, her body language showing that all of her attention was focused on him. She looked like she wanted to get closer to him, to reach out to him, but she kept her distance. Her mouth opened as though she was going to say something, then closed again with yet another sigh. “I’m sorry,” she apologized, “I think I need more coffee if I’m going to get through this conversation.” 

The idea of using coffee to calm oneself down seemed odd to Malcolm, but he didn’t argue with her. A part of him recognized that she was stalling, but the other part of him saw how hard this was going to be for both of them and so he let her have her brief distraction. 

“Can I have Marta bring you anything?” she offered as she headed for the door with Holly at her heels. 

“No, thank you, I’m good for now,” he answered, offering her a polite smile. 

While she was gone, Malcolm allowed what he felt to show on his face. There was exhaustion, of course, but there was also pain. Some of it was physical as he was finally starting to feel his trip down the stairs this morning, his shoulders and neck stepping ahead of the rest of him to make their discomfort known. The majority of it, however, was the kind that had been long buried and was now rising to the surface to begin hurting anew. 

She came back not five minutes after leaving with a new cup of coffee in hand and Holly still at her side. “Marta’s bringing in some hot water and some tea,” she informed him as she sat back down. “And don’t worry,” she added before he could decline her offer for one reason or another, “it’s just a tea bag, and you can pour the water yourself.” 

“Thank you,” he said, though he had no intention of taking her up on the refreshment. 

She was silent as they waited for the housekeeper to come in with the tray of hot water, an assortment of teas, and the other things that might be needed for a gentleman to make himself a cup of tea. The housekeeper placed the tray on the coffee table, offering both of them a polite smile before she left the room, closing the door behind her. For another minute or two after, Olivia remained where she was, quietly sipping her coffee and keeping her attention on Malcolm. What she was waiting for, he didn’t have a clue, but he was content to wait, wanting her to take the lead in whatever conversation they were about to have. 

“Do you remember the day my father called me into this room?” 

Malcolm could think of several instances where that had happened, but since he knew that she was referring to a time more recently than when she had been eight, he nodded. “You were supposed to leave for college the next day. We had been in the family room, talking when he came in, called you into his study, dismissing me without a thought.” 

“He may not have ever spoken to you, but trust me, he thought about you a lot,” Olivia corrected, her tone almost angry. 

“Let me guess, he brought you in here and told you that you had to stop talking to me because I would ruin your chances of ever being accepted into any law school,” he said derisively. 

While Malcolm didn’t doubt the Whitly name could destroy a lot within New York, he doubted it could do much outside the city. Not only was it unlikely that Olivia would mention her friendship with The Surgeon’s son, but most law schools didn’t even care about or know the Whitly name. 

“Not quite,” Olivia said. Setting aside her cup, she sat back, her hands in her lap and her gaze focused on her hands. “He said that if I didn’t cut all communication with you that he would disown me.” 

“And rather than being destitute, you did as he said,” Malcolm surmised. “I get it.” Olivia scoffed, her self-disgust evident in the sound. “No, I do,” Malcolm assured, shifting with a wince to sit more upright. “I don’t know if I would have done anything different had my mother presented me with the same ultimatum.” 

Olivia’s gaze was fierce with self-reproach as she looked at him. “Don’t lie to me. You and I both know that you would have chosen your friends over money because that’s just who you are.” She stood up, pacing in front of him for a few laps. “Either way, it doesn’t matter,” she said, stopping. She sat down in the open space on the ottoman, her left hip brushing against his knee. Leaning forward, she rested her right arm on her leg and reached out to gently take his right hand in her left. “I am so sorry for the pain that I caused you,” she apologized with tears welling in her eyes. Her grip tightened, like she thought he was planning on pulling away and she didn’t want to let him go, and she smiled. “No matter what my father had threatened me with, you deserved better from me.” 

Unable to hold her gaze any longer, Malcolm looked down at their hands, hating himself a little when a tear splats onto his pants. Knowing Olivia like he did, he knew that she had planned on apologizing to him, and he had been determined not to show how it would affect him. He had wanted to remain distant and unemotional with her, protecting himself from when she walks out of his life again. Clearly that wasn’t going to happen, but still, he shored up his feelings, refusing to let any other tears fall. 

Her hand squeezed his again and this time Malcolm winced from the pressure. Olivia may be about the same size as Ainsley, but she was strong. 

“Sorry, am I hurting you?” she asked, letting go of his hand and sitting with her back straight and her eyes searching him. “You winced.” 

Ah, so she’d seen that. “It’s nothing,” he dismissed. When Gil had forced him to the doctor’s that morning, Malcolm had conveniently left out the part of his wrist being injured. Since he hadn’t been able to hide how much his ankle was hurting him, he’d allowed the doctor to examine that and that alone. While having to use crutches to get around everywhere wasn’t doing his wrist any favors, Malcolm couldn’t find it in him to regret his decision not to mention it; God only knows what Gil would have insisted he use instead of crutches. 

“I was sorry to hear of Emily’s passing,” he said, changing the subject to one they could both share grief in. 

Olivia nodded, showing she’d heard him, then stood up, her posture tense and cold. “I’m surprised you didn’t come to the funeral.”

“I was sorry to miss it,” Malcolm offered while not giving a reason for it. He wasn’t about to lay blame when he wasn’t sure it was deserved. 

“Let me guess, you were a bit too busy with the FBI to get away,” she said, her tone such a mixture of derision and sarcasm that he thought his mother was here instead of his old friend. For hating Jessica Whitly so much, Olivia was quickly on her way to becoming her. 

Malcolm remained silent. Let her think what she would; he wasn’t here to fight with her. “Where’s Robert?” he asked, making a pretense of looking around for him.

“He’s upstairs,” she answered, her gaze flicking to the ceiling. “We had dinner and then he went up to finish settling in and then sleep. I didn’t argue with him since I wasn’t sure how he felt about you. For years we’ve been silent on the subject of your family. We could never agree so we settled for avoidance.” 

Malcolm nodded. Robert Bertrand had been one of his many childhood bullies. He hadn’t been the most aggressive, by any means, but given how often Malcolm had been at his house, he’d had the most opportunity to remind Malcolm of his flaws - namely being Martin Whitly’s son. Unless Emily was around, things between Malcolm and Robert often got physical, with Malcolm usually on the losing end. At first it was an occasional black eye, but as they had grown, Robert learned to leave bruises where people couldn’t see. 

The idea of meeting up with Robert made Malcolm’s stomach roil with fear. It was an instinctual reaction, born out of years of torment by the much larger boy. He had no reason to fear the man now. Over the years, Malcolm had learned how to defend himself, and, more importantly, he’d learned how to fight back. Although he was injured, Malcolm was still confident that he’d be able to hold his own if Robert were to try anything now. 

“He’s changed a lot since we were kids,” Olivia assured, seeming to read Malcolm’s mind. “I think that once my father’s influence was removed, he got a lot better. He’s still an arrogant ass, but he’s no longer a bully.” 

Malcolm wasn’t sure what to say to that. He wanted to thank Olivia for her consideration, but he was also irritated by her trying to convince him that her brother had changed. Since it wasn’t likely they were going to meet while Robert was in town, Malcolm didn’t see the need to worry or even think about him. So then why did she feel the need to force some sort of truce between the two of them? 

He was about to start some small talk when his phone buzzed once in his pocket, indicating a text message. “Excuse me,” he said as he reached in and grabbed it. The number assigned to the message wasn’t familiar to him and Malcolm’s brows furrowed in confusion until he read the text. 

_ Sorry about the ankle, but I had something heavy that I wanted to get from the upper loft. It’s not yet time to hurt you. _

A few seconds after reading that, Malcolm received another text. 

_ Please assure Miss Bertrand that she and her home are safe from any further intrusions on my end. She should really think about changing her routine once in a while, though; it would help to prevent things like this from happening in the future. See you soon, kid.  _

Feeling a sense of panic begin to build, Malcolm simply stared at the messages. On the one hand, now he had proof that the killer was targeting him. On the other, the killer not only knew his phone number, but he had been in Malcolm’s loft without him even knowing it. It was the last part that bothered him. Very few people had access to his loft. So, either, the killer was acquainted with someone in his mother’s employ - or even possibly one of his mother’s many staff - or he’d managed to break into Malcolm’s home while he’d been out. No matter which way it went, it didn’t bode well for Malcolm.

“What is it?” Olivia asked with alert concern in her voice. “What’s wrong?” 

“Uh, I’m sorry, but I have to go,” Malcolm said, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to lie to her; she’d read it on his face far too easily. He haphazardly scrambled up, reaching for the crutches behind the chair and bringing them around before Olivia even had time to try to help. “Thank you for having me over,” he said, sincerely meaning it. He paused, then asked, “Is it okay if I call you?” 

In spite of the worry that she clearly felt, Olivia smiled at that. “Of course. I’ll look forward to it. I’ll call Henry and have him meet you outside.” 

“Thank you,” Malcolm said. “I’ll send him back to you soon.” 

“Don’t worry about it. We’re in for the night. Just…be careful, okay?” 

Malcolm chuckled, half amused and half uncomfortable. “No promises,” he answered. He left her in the library, quickly making his way to the coat rack where his coat hung. While he slipped it on, he called Gil. “Gil,” he said once the man had answered, “meet me at the loft. I’ve got something I think you need to see.” 

  
  


**oOo**

  
  
  


Gil had just gotten home when Malcolm had called him. Normally, he would have stayed at the office much longer, but he wasn’t feeling well and knew the extra sleep would do him good. So, he’d gone home, entirely prepared to fall into his bed and not get up until the morning. He’d groaned when Malcolm’s name had popped up on his phone, but he’d answered anyways. At first, the kid had sounded frantic, but then Gil had heard the panic lying just underneath and that had given him the adrenaline boost he’d needed to get back into his car and head over to the kid’s loft.

He arrived just in time to see Malcolm awkwardly struggle out of a black Lincoln Town Car. Apparently the kid hadn’t given the driver time to fully stop since Gil watched the man put the car in park and then hurriedly get out to try and help. Neither the car nor the driver were familiar to Gil, but that wasn’t really saying much. In his long acquaintance with the Whitly family, he couldn’t remember ever meeting the man who drove Jessica Whitly - and sometimes Malcolm - around. 

Exiting the car, Gil shivered and pulled his pulled closer around him. “Alright kid, I’m here,” he said as he approached the graffiti’d door. “What did you need me to see?” 

“Alright, you know how I fell down the stairs this morning?” Malcolm began, his energy manic. His movements seemed to lack coordination as he took out his keys, unlocked the door and let the both of them into the building. “Well, I didn’t tell you everything.” 

“I’m shocked,” Gil answered dryly, barely refraining from rolling his eyes. 

“Yeah, well,” Malcolm offered by way of apology. “Anyways, the reason I fell was because the stair broke beneath my weight.”

Knowing just how thick those stairs were, Gil found that odd. It would have to take something truly heavy to break one of those stairs and Malcolm Bright certainly wasn’t that. Most days Gil thought a stiff breeze would knock the kid over, sometimes he thought a feather could do it just as easily.

“At first, I didn’t really think anything of it,” Malcolm said. When Gil raised an eyebrow at him, he added, “Well I did, but then we got the case and the whole thing just kind of slipped my mind. But while I was at Olivia’s, I got these.” He handed Gil his cell phone, opened to show a couple text messages from an Unknown number. 

While Gil got out his glasses so that he could read the messages, Malcolm started turning on lights in his loft, illuminating the space far more than he ever had, to Gil’s recollection. One of his crutches caught on the bird’s cage, tripping the kid up enough that he stumbled, his breath catching before hissing in pain. 

“Go sit down,” Gil commanded with exasperation evident in his voice. He handed the phone back to the kid before he had even read the texts. “I can turn on the lights.” 

“I’m fine,” Malcolm argued, waving Gil off. It was a phrase the kid uttered so often that Gil was beginning to wonder if that was just his default answer to everything. “Did you read them?” 

“No, I’m a bit preoccupied with making sure that you don’t fall over and kill yourself,” Gil lectured with a roll of his eyes. 

“We both know that I wouldn’t die if I fell,” Malcolm answered. Even so, he allowed Gil to herd him towards the sofa in the living room. 

Gil remained standing, waiting to take the crutches from Malcolm when he was finished. He did his best not to smile when the kid voluntarily elevated his foot onto the coffee table; the ankle must be hurting pretty badly from his stumble for the profiler to do that without someone pestering him into it. Ignoring the kid’s outstretched hand, phone held out for him to grab, Gil placed the crutches against the brick wall then went over to the stairs to inspect them. It didn’t take long for him to find the split in the wood. “It looks like something heavy forced the wood to crack,” he observed, turning around just in time to see Malcolm pale a little. “What?”

“You should read these,” was all the kid said and Gil felt a sense of foreboding form in his chest. 

Taking the phone out of Malcolm’s hand, Gil sighed then began to read. It took a couple of read-throughs before Gil realized what he was looking at. Not that it hadn’t been obvious up front, but he had been denying the possibility of the killer’s goals so strongly that it was hard for him to reconcile himself with the reality of the killer contacting Malcolm. When he finally let that sink in, however, it took everything he had in him not to overreact. 

Clenching his jaw in anger, Gil handed the phone back to Malcolm. His first instinct is to call in the calvary - get CSU over to check for prints, have the kid placed in protective custody, and assign around-the-clock surveillance to monitor who goes in and who comes out of this place. Deciding there wasn’t a reason not to do all of that, Gil opened his phone. 

“Gil, wait,” Malcolm urged, his hand outstretched. If Gil had been close enough, the kid would have taken Gil’s phone. “Before you call everyone over, hear me out.” 

“Why do I think you’re going to tell me not to call anyone?” Gil asked, already unhappy with where this was going. 

“No, by all means, have CSU come down, and see if they can find prints or figure out what was taken,” Malcolm said, surprising Gil. “But wait on the rest of it.” Meaning he knew that Gil would want him placed into protective custody and he didn’t want that. Great. 

“Bright, I am not letting you use yourself as bait,” Gil immediately objected. 

“That’s not what I’m about to suggest,” Malcolm assured. Gil didn’t believe him and clearly his expression showed that because Malcolm added, “Not entirely, at least.” Gil crossed his arms, glaring down at Malcolm. Unperturbed, Malcolm explained. “If you put me into protective custody, you risk losing him in the crowd, or worse, you risk him escalating his plans before we’re prepared. Either way, we lose the opportunity of catching him.” 

Gil’s lip briefly curled back in a snarl. Yeah, the kid was precisely talking about using himself as bait. It may have been worded differently, but it was still bait all the same. The problem was, Gil knew he had a point. Was it possible there were better ways of drawing him out? Of course. But they couldn’t have a killer slip through their grasp simply because Gil’s drive to protect Malcolm was stronger than it was to catch the killer, and Malcolm understood that. Gil did too; he didn’t like it, but he understood it. 

Frustration and helplessness mixed together, creating a poison to which Gil didn’t have the antidote. Ever since Malcolm had joined the team, Gil had had to maintain a careful balance between the father figure and the boss. Since he’d had plenty of practice with that through Dani, he could normally do it with ease. But then Malcolm would put himself into dangerous situations, purposely risking his life for the case, and Gil would find all his self-control tested, or even completely thrown out the window. 

Placing his hands on the top of the armchair, Gil leaned on it, allowing it to support him while he fought with himself. In the end, he knew there was only one decision he’d make. No matter how crazy the plan was, Gil always seemed to go with it if it came from Malcolm. It was a habit which his superiors were starting to notice and frown on, but he had yet to learn to break it. The kid may be on the brink of sanity sometimes, but Gil was damned if Malcolm didn’t know what he was doing. 

Sighing, Gil looked over at Malcolm. The kid looked at him with such an expression of anxiety, his light blue eyes practically begging Gil to say yes, that Gil could only shake his head. “What am I gonna do with you, kid?” 

Realizing he’d won, Malcolm relaxed. His smile was mischievous as he said, “You can let me help you catch a killer.” 

**TBC**

  
  



	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of fun writing this chapter, so I hope you guys enjoy it too. 
> 
> Another OC is being introduced - Nyka (Knee-kah). I kinda like her; I think I'm gonna keep her, lol
> 
> Enjoy!

**V**

  
  


Dani froze when she saw light shining under her apartment door, her hand instantly going to her gun as her instincts kicked in. Unlike JT, who had someone to go home to, Dani had no one waiting for her. Her apartment should be dark and empty. Instead, she heard movement within, and she even thought she could smell something cooking. Although she doubted someone would break into her home and cook her dinner, Dani refused to relax just yet. Drawing her gun, she opened her front door. 

Most people would have called her apartment a shoebox, but to Dani, it was just what she needed. Her furniture was old and mismatched, her tv and dvd player the only relatively new things she owned, but it was all well kept and clean. Her mother’s handmade quilts covered the sofa and the bed, providing color and warmth to the spaces that would be hard to find otherwise. No, it wasn’t much, but it was hers; no payments or debt required to keep it.

Movement to her left had Dani pivoting, her gun arm raising to take aim. 

“You had absolutely  _ nothing  _ in your cupboards,” the voice of her best friend greeted her. “Is that how you stay so skinny? You just don’t eat?” 

Dani sighed, annoyed. “Nyka, what are you doing here? I thought you were an intruder.” 

Nyka looked over her shoulder, her arms suspended over her head as she put some pasta onto a shelf. “And they what, cooked you dinner while they were here? Girl, please, you’re smarter than that.” 

At 5’10 and 180lbs, Nyka Stewart was the kind of beautiful that should be on a runway. Her curly hair was dark and thick, framing her round face and dark skin perfectly. They had met while in college, and though it had taken awhile for Dani to trust her, Nyka had been both patient and persistent - not unlike a certain forensic profiler, now that Dani thought about it - and now Dani couldn’t do without her. 

Holstering her gun, Dani rolled her eyes. “You never know with this job,” she said, taking off her jacket and laying it over the sofa. “You see some pretty weird things when Bright is around.” 

At the mention of the profiler, Nyka’s attention switched from putting away the groceries she’d brought with her to Dani. “Ooh, yes,  _ Malcolm _ . You know, you still haven’t told me when you’re going to introduce us.” 

Dani rolled her eyes at her friend. “Yes I have, you just refuse to accept the answer.” 

“What can I say?” Nyka said as she followed Dani to the bedroom then sat on the bed while Dani changed. “I just think you’re wrong.” Dani made a sound that was supposed to be the beginning of an argument, but her sweater blocked her face and it came out muffled. As per her usual, Nyka ignored her. “I mean,  _ I _ am your best friend, and it sounds like this guy is tryin’ta take my place. It’s only right that I should meet my competition.” 

“Okay,” Dani said now that she had the sweater off, “one, Bright could never replace you. And two, he could not handle meeting you; you’d scare him.” Nyka opened her mouth to argue, but Dani stopped her, saying, “And three, I know precisely why you want to meet him, and it definitely isn’t because you feel threatened.” 

At that, Nyka offered a smile. “I bet you, me and your boy could have some  _ fun _ .” 

Dani snorted out a chuckle then turned around to grab a sweatshirt from her dresser. She had made the mistake of confiding in Nyka about Bright’s…sleeping habits. Ever since Nyka had found out that Bright came with his own set of restraints, she had been itching to get with him. As far as Dani was concerned, that wasn’t ever going to happen. She loved Nyka like a sister, but Dani knew she was more than Bright could handle right now; he may get on her nerves at times, but she couldn’t do that to him.

“No,” was all Dani said, and it made Nyka roll her eyes. 

“Fine,” she sighed, though Dani knew this wasn’t over. Every time they talked, Nyka seemed to find a way to bring it up. “Dinner will be ready in a few minutes you ungrateful wretch.” 

“Love you too!” Dani called as her friend went back to the kitchen while she finished getting changed. 

She was just about to sit down to her food when her phone rang. Offering her friend a look of apology, Dani answered it. “This is Powell.” 

“Dani, it’s Gil. I need you to meet me at Bright’s place.

Dani glanced at her friend at the mention of Bright. She thought about seeing if she could eat first, but there was something in Gil’s voice that told her that wouldn’t be an option. “Uh, okay. I’m on my way.” Hanging up, she looked at Nyka. “I’m sorry, but I have to go.” 

“But you just got home,” Nyka argued, though they both knew it was pointless. 

“I know, I’m sorry. My boss just called; something’s up.”

Nyka rose as she did, following Dani to the door. “Is something wrong?” 

“No,” Dani immediately answered. Then she thought about the worry and anger she’d heard in her mentor’s voice and changed her statement. “Maybe. Right now, all I know is that I’m to meet him…” she almost mentioned where, but she caught herself at the last minute. Nyka wasn’t crass, but if Dani mentioned she was going to Bright’s, her friend might want to come just to make sure everything was okay and Gil might just  _ kill  _ her if that happened. 

“Meet him?” Nyka asked, catching Dani’s intention.

“Look, I’m sorry, I really have to go.” Stepping forward, Dani gave her friend a kiss and a hug. “Thank you for dinner, it looks amazing. I’ll have some when I get back.” 

“Mmhmm,” was Nyka’s doubtful reply. She didn’t try to detain Dani any longer, though. “Tell Malcolm I said hello.” 

Dani left without answering. She needed to find a way to nip that in the bud, otherwise things could very well end up in disaster. 

  
  


**oOo**

  
  


Bright’s street was quiet as she pulled up to the curb and parked. Since JT wasn’t here yet, Dani remained in her car, checking out the other cars and buildings for signs of something amiss. Gil’s Les Mans was parked on the other side of the street, the slowly falling snow gathering on it’s cold surface. She remembered seeing Leo Armijo’s truck four cars back, and she wondered why someone from CSU would be here. Knowing that she would find out when she got upstairs, Dani got out of the car and headed for the front door. 

_ “Yeah?”  _ Gil’s voice answered on the buzzer. It could have been just Dani’s imagination, but she thought his voice sounded deeper, rougher, since she last spoke to him. 

Headlights briefly blinded her, and Dani looked over to see JT pulling up to the curb. “JT and I are here,” she announced. “Let us up.” She waited until she heard the door buzz then she pulled, holding it open while she waited for her partner to join her. 

“Do you know what this is about?” he asked as they entered the building and called the elevator. In spite of the fact that it was snowing, he wore his usual coat. Apparently he’d been forced into wearing the scarf and gloves that he had on, because he took them off as soon as he got inside. Dani, who was still cold, kept her coat on and did her best not to snuggle into it to keep warm. 

“No,” she answered, somehow managing to keep her tone nonchalant. “Gil called me and told me to meet him here. That’s all.” 

Her partner nodded. “Me too.” 

Bright’s door was cracked open as they approached, making Dani slow her steps and her hand inch towards her gun. When she heard the sounds of multiple people inside, including Gil, Dani relaxed, but her curiosity grew. As far as she knew, Bright had never had that many people in his home; whatever was going on, that had changed and she wondered how the profiler was handling that. 

Bright sat on the sofa in his living room, his back to the windows and his head turned to the right so he could see who entered his home. Judging from his position alone, Dani guessed that Gil had forced him to sit that way so that Bright could keep his injured ankle elevated. Knowing how little Bright liked people fussing over him, Dani tried not to smile at that. Gil stood to Bright’s left, arms crossed over his chest and an unhappy expression on his face. Upstairs, Dani heard Leo’s voice, followed by that of a young woman’s as she responded to whatever her boss had said. 

Turning to look at JT to see if he found this all as weird as she did, Dani smiled when she noticed her partner staring at Bright’s place with his mouth open. “Careful, you might get flies in there,” she teased, leaving him in the doorway. 

“ _ Can  _ you even get flies in a place as clean as this?” JT asked with no small amount of wonder in his voice, idly shutting the door behind him while he continued to stare at his surroundings. 

“Technically, you can get flies anywhere,” Malcolm corrected because that was exactly how his mind worked, “but I get your point.” 

“Hey Bright,” Dani greeted as she joined both him and Gil in the living room, “How’s the ankle?” 

As she had suspected, Bright lay on the sofa with his ankle and knee elevated on pillows. After seeing his grimaces earlier when he’d had to bend the knee, she wasn’t surprised to find something supporting it; leaving your leg straight for hours on end was killer on the knee joint. What  _ did  _ surprise her was seeing his right hand resting on top of his knee with a pack of frozen peas sitting on top of it. She hadn’t thought he’d hurt his hand, but maybe she just hadn’t noticed it? 

“It’s fine,” he answered dismissively, his left hand waving away the question. “Gil, on the other hand-” 

“-is fine too,” Gil answered, and this time Dani did recognize congestion in his voice. 

Bright looked over at her. “He needs some tea, but he won’t let me get up to make it,” he confided. “Would you mind doing it?”

“Sure,” Dani answered, ignoring Gil’s glare. Smiling, Dani headed for the kitchen. Apparently, Gil wasn’t the only mother hen of the group. 

“So why are we here?” JT asked, evidently choosing to ignore how comfortable Dani was in Bright’s home in favor of getting to the point. He headed for the living, stopping at the arm of the sofa by Bright’s feet and standing with his arms crossed over his chest, mirroring Gil. 

“Our killer is targeting Bright,” Gil announced. 

Dani paused in filling the kettle. “Yeah, but we already knew that,” she said, her tone showing that she suspected there was more to it than that. Placing the kettle on the stove, she lit the burner, then turned around to grab a mug and some lemon ginger tea that she knew Bright kept on hand for when he wasn’t feeling well. 

“Yes, but now we have proof,” Bright answered with something near excitement in his voice. 

“What kind of proof?” JT asked, looking between the two men. 

The sound of Bright’s iPhone unlocking briefly echoed through the room and Dani looked over to see him hand his phone to JT. Curious, Dani joined them. 

The text messages weren’t original by any killer’s standards. What made them disturbing wasn’t the words themselves, but that they were all for Bright. Yes, the killer had easily penetrated his target’s home, but Dani knew it wouldn’t bother her anywhere near as much if it hadn’t been  _ Bright’s  _ home. 

When he had first joined the team, Dani had been inclined to think the way JT did - all signs and mannerisms had seemed to point to Bright being the killer. He’d been arrogant, insensitive, and off-putting from the get-go. But then she saw him running out of the conference room, looking like a frightened child fleeing a monster, and s he began to glimpse a bit of what Gil saw in him. She kept an eye on him from then on, watching as the mask he presented slowly faded and he became more…him.

_ It’s not like Bright hasn’t squared off with killers before,  _ a voice that sounded remarkably like Edrisa reminded her. Heading over to the whistling teapot, Dani shook her head at the voice. This was different. This wasn’t just some random killer that Bright was choosing to engage with. This man had chosen Bright personally, specifically targeting him and the nightmares that continued to torment him to this day, and that pissed Dani off. 

Although she didn’t know the full extent of it all, Dani knew that Bright had been through a lot in his life, that he continued to suffer, and all because of what his father had done. She honestly wasn’t sure if Doctor Martin Whitly had forced Bright to help him with his “experiments”, but she wouldn’t put it past the man. Either way, it was obvious that  _ Bright  _ thought he had and the guilt he felt for something he couldn’t even remember, let alone control, was eating away him day by day. To have a killer capitalizing on that disgusted her, and Dani had never had such a strong desire to protect someone as she did to protect Malcolm Bright in that moment.

Pushing those thoughts aside, Dani carefully carried the cup of steaming hot tea over to Gil, smiling at him when he begrudgingly took it, and then sat down on the coffee table so that she was able to face Bright. Walking just as carefully as Dani was, Gil took his tea and sat in the armchair to the profiler’s left, looking utterly exhausted.

Gil took a brief sip of his tea then winced at the heat. “I have Leo and Amanda upstairs, looking for prints, boot marks, anything that could help us get ahead of this guy,” he said, his voice edging towards scratchy. He took another sip, then said, “I want you and JT to take Bright’s statement; I want this all on record.” 

Both Dani and JT waited for their boss to say more, but when he didn’t, Dani asked, “That’s it?” 

A look that she couldn’t decipher passed between Bright and Gil, then Gil said, “That’s it. Bright has chosen not to be in the police’s protection.” 

“But you know he’ll come after you, right?” Dani asked, looking at the profiler to make sure he understood. 

“And that’s what we want,” Bright assured, not looking nearly as worried as Dani felt. “Like I told Gil, if I disappear, we risk the chance of losing this guy.” 

“Or of him finding you and killing more people to get to you,” JT quietly added. 

Bright paled, but he quickly recovered. “That thought hadn’t actually occurred to me, but you’re right, that could happen too. Either way, we are at a disadvantage.” 

“And you think using yourself as bait gives us an advantage?” Dani asked doubtfully. “How?”

“Every little thing we learn about him helps me understand him,” Bright patiently explained. He’d shrugged the pack of peas off his hand not long into this conversation and he now held out his hands, palms facing one another, like he was measuring something. “The better I understand him, the better I can do my job and catch him.” 

Dani thought about arguing with him over who actually did the catching of the killers, but she dismissed the idea. The truth was, they worked as a team: who did the actual catching and who didn’t wasn’t important. Instead, she looked over at Gil. “You can’t seriously be considering letting him do this.” 

At first she hadn’t been able to figure out Gil’s relationship with Bright. It was plain to see that he cared for the profiler, but she hadn’t been able to discern why, or how that had started. That had all changed, of course, the more she’d gotten to know of Bright and what little she’d been told of his past, but the pieces hadn’t really, truly, fallen into place until she and Bright had been sitting outside Fabiola’s Hair Salon. Gil had saved them both. In largely different ways, yes, but he had become more than just their boss or just a cop; he had become family. 

Having repeatedly seen how Gil felt about Bright, Dani couldn’t believe he was okay with letting someone he thought of as a son put himself in harm’s way like this. 

“Don’t look at me, I tried to talk him out of this,” Gil said, holding one hand up in surrender. 

Dani was pleased to note that he sounded a bit better. Deciding it was a good idea to remove herself from the situation before she smacked them both upside the head, Dani stood up and made Gil more tea. 

“Gil and I have discussed this at length,” Bright interjected, speaking so that everyone could hear him no matter where they were in the loft. “In the end, we both agreed that this was the best option.” 

“We agreed?” Gil countered, anger in his voice. “I don’t remember agreeing to any of this madness. I remember finally giving in because you are just as stubborn as your - as Jackie.” 

The room got quiet as everyone internalized what had just happened. For his part, JT averted his gaze, looking thoroughly uncomfortable with what Gil had just implied. Gil’s jaw was clenched, but Dani couldn’t tell if he was still fuming over what Bright had decided to do, or if he was angry with himself for the slip. From the kitchen, Dani watched as Bright seemed to deflate, his shoulders sagging, his arms lowering with them, as he let out a sigh. 

Dani was glad she had the excuse of tea-making to distract her because otherwise, the tears in her eyes would have been obvious. She had only met Jackie Arroyo once, but it had been enough for her to fall in love with the motherly woman. Even while she was sick, Jackie had fretted over Dani, trying to make her feel comfortable in her presence, and pushing everything in their kitchen on her to eat. She’d been there all of five minutes before she’d seen just how much Gil loved his wife. When Jackie had died, it had destroyed Gil. Dani had tried to do what she could, but she hadn’t been able to do much beyond making sure he ate and went home to sleep. 

Jackie’s name being mentioned always seemed to bring the pain back for Gil. Dani hated seeing it, so she did her best never to mention his late wife, but she couldn’t stop him, or anyone else for that matter, from doing it. The fact that Gil had almost called Jackie, Bright’s mother showed just how truly loved Bright had been by Jackie, and how much he was still loved by Gil. 

“Alright,” Dani said, carrying the second cup of tea over to her mentor before returning to her spot on the coffee table. She still wasn’t convinced this was a good idea, but she’d worked with both men long enough to know that she wasn’t going to be able to change either one of their minds. Ignoring the tears she saw in Bright’s eyes, she asked, “So what’s the plan?”

  
  


**oOo**

  
  


It was less than an hour later when they all started to vacate Bright’s loft. JT was the first to go. Having finished taking the profiler’s statement, Dani’s partner had left as quickly as he could without being downright rude. Leo and his assistant had left shortly into getting Bright’s statement; as Bright had guessed, they hadn’t really found anything, but they had gathered some hair fibers and planned to test them against Bright before sending them for further tests. 

Dani was taking her sweet time with leaving. A part of her was tempted to camp out for the night, but she already knew what Bright would say to that so she didn’t even suggest it. Instead, she did everything as slowly as she could, keeping an eye on the two men in the living room. 

For the rest of the night, the dynamic between Gil and Bright was different from usual. Gil had seemed to be stiff and angry with the profiler, while Bright had been almost gentle with Gil. While explaining that he planned on doing nothing for the moment, Bright’s gaze kept flicking over to Gil, his expression soft, comforting, like he was trying to soften some unforeseen blow for the older man. It hadn’t done anything to alleviate Gil’s bad mood, but it had been nice for Dani to see that Gil’s love was returned in full. 

Now they sat in the living room, quietly talking. Dani suspected they were talking about the case, but since she couldn’t actually hear them, she couldn’t prove it. If the tension in Gil’s posture was anything to go by, though, they were still arguing over Bright’s plan. Or lack thereof, really. 

Setting the mug on the shelf with the others of its kind, Dani accepted that she couldn’t linger any longer. Sighing, she turned around. “Alright, I’m gonna head out,” she announced, making both men’s heads snap up to look at her. Ignoring the feeling that she was interrupting something, Dani grabbed her abandoned coat from the sofa. “Be nice,” she said, leaving it up to interpretation who she was talking to. “I’ll see you guys in the morning.” 

“Goodnight, Dani,” Bright said, his smile tired yet sincere. “Thanks for coming. I know it’s late.” 

“Well, I wasn’t about to miss seeing JT’s first visit to your loft,” she answered, teasing. When Bright gave a half smile, Dani had to stifle the urge to ruffle his hair. Although he was older than her, he was quickly becoming the little brother she’d never had. Whether or not he felt the same, she couldn’t yet tell. Tucking her hands into her pockets, she left. 

There was time to try to decipher the puzzle that was Malcolm Bright. For tonight, all Dani wanted to do was sleep. 

  
  


**oOo**

  
  


Gil watched Powell leave, his mind becoming foggier by the minute. He’d finally accepted that he was getting sick while he’d been nursing his third cup of tea, but he wasn’t about to admit that to Bright who probably already knew. Putting his head in his hands, Gil sighed. 

“You should go home, Gil,” the kid said, sympathy in his voice. “I mean, you could always take my bed, we both know I don’t really use it anyways, but something tells me, you’d be more comfortable at home.” 

“Well you’re not wrong about that,” Gil conceded. While Malcolm’s bed wasn’t the worst place to sleep, it certainly wasn’t as comfortable as his own bed. Gil knew the real reason he didn’t want to leave was because he didn’t want to leave Malcolm alone. Given that the killer had already made contact with Bright, Gil knew it was unlikely he would do anything further, which meant the kid would be fine on his own for the night. Even so, he was hesitant to go. 

The silence dragged on so long that Gil almost believed the kid had fallen asleep. Or maybe  _ he  _ was falling asleep, he honestly couldn’t tell. But then the kid said, “She was my mother too,” and Gil’s heart hurt. Surprise made his head snap up to look at Bright’s sad, blue eyes. “Just like you’re the father I wish I had, she was the mother I wanted to have.” 

A tear he couldn’t stop spilled down Gil’s cheek and he ducked his head to try to hide it. Malcolm allowed him a minute to gather himself and Gil took it gladly. Sighing, he looked back up. The kid was watching him with tears in his eyes, the pain in his expression mirroring Gil’s as their souls echoed one another’s grief. Gil wanted nothing more than to pull Malcolm in for a hug, but he stopped himself. While Bright was more comfortable with Gil touching him than he was with anyone else, Gil knew he wasn’t the type to welcome an overabundant amount of physical contact. 

Patting the kid’s thigh, Gil stood up. “I should go,” he said. “You stay there, I’ll lock the door on my way out.” 

“I’m fairly certain we’ve had this conversation before, but that key I gave you is for emergencies,” Malcolm lectured. “Keeping me on this couch is not an emergency.” 

“Maybe not. But, I would classify keeping my peace of mind a worthy enough cause for me to use the key, wouldn’t you?” 

The kid chuckled. “Sure,” he conceded. “If it means you’ll go home and get some sleep, then sure, we’ll go with that.” 

“G’night, Bright,” Gil bid, giving the kid a pat on the head before allowing his hand to drift down to the kid’s neck which he gave a gentle, comforting squeeze. 

Gil wanted to say so much to him, do so much for him, but he knew he couldn’t. Words were inadequate for the feelings he would want to express, and there was only so much that Malcolm Bright was willing to let someone do for him before he started closing down or pushing back. So Gil kept what he felt and thought to himself, leaving the kid to decompress and rest. Tomorrow he would do his best to protect and support his kid, whatever it took. 

  
  


**TBC**

  
  



	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, from here on out, my chapters may make less sense and/or have more errors as my beta is no longer available to go through them. I hope none of it detracts from the story, and apologize if it does. 
> 
> Hope you all are enjoying how this is going!

**VI**

The next morning, Malcolm woke with the usual scream tearing at his throat. He spit his mouthguard onto the floor, then took a moment to orient himself to his surroundings. He’d dreamt about the girl in the box again, only this time, by the end of the dream it was _him_ in the box instead of her. The sad part was, Malcolm couldn’t decide which was worse - seeing some strange woman locked in a trunk or being locked in one in her place. With luck, he wouldn’t ever figure it out; that was one question he didn’t need answered.

Releasing the locks on the restraints, Malcolm grimaced as his wrist throbbed in pain. Even as he’d slipped the them on, he had known that his wrist was going to hate him in the morning, but he also knew they were necessary and had gladly accepted the pain that was to come in favor of being safe while he slept. His ankle soon joined in with its own throbbing as he stretched. The intensity of the pain surprised him, making him stop with a hiss.

Malcolm began calculating the changes he’d need to make to his routine to avoid putting too much pressure on his injuries. He’d contemplated going through his exercises like normal, but he could already tell that wasn’t going to be possible, and so he revised his ideas. Going up to his closet was going to completely suck, but there wasn’t anything he could do about that. If he’d thought about it, he would have asked Gil or Dani to grab a change of clothes while they’d been here last night, but it had completely slipped his mind.

Begrudgingly, Malcolm grabbed the crutches that lay against the head of the bed and used them to help him stand. Once he’d gained his balance, he made his way to his kitchen and began his day in earnest. He moved cautiously, but mechanically, his mind far too preoccupied with processing all that had happened the night before to worry about the here and now.

When he’d first received those texts, all Malcolm had felt was panic. But the more he’d thought about it, the more excited he became, and by the time he’d gotten home to meet up with Gil, he’d practically been buzzing from the adrenaline rush as a plan began to form in his mind.

Gil’s reaction to the whole thing was another matter entirely. Malcolm had expected him to want to call in the cavalry, and had therefore been prepared for it. When Gil had given Malcolm his phone back with his teeth practically grinding from how tightly his jaw was clenched, Malcolm had known that it was time to present his idea. What he hadn’t counted on was watching as the man he loved like a father visibly fought with himself over whether or not to allow Malcolm to follow through with his ideas. Seeing all the emotions that had crossed Gil’s face as he leaned against the armchair had been hard for Malcolm because he knew he had been the cause of every single one of them.

Once Gil had become resigned to the idea, Malcolm had relaxed. He had believed that things would go smoothly from there, but he had been wrong. After Gil had made his phone call to a friend of his from the CSU department and had turned his attention back on Malcolm, he had made Malcolm change his position on the sofa so that his back was against one of the arms and his leg could be supported by pillows. Sometime during the change of position, Gil had become aware of something being wrong with Malcolm’s wrist, and Malcolm would have swore that Gil was going to strangle him then and there.

His anger hadn’t abated over time either. He had remained silent, staring down at Malcolm with his arms crossed while they waited for people to arrive. Malcolm had thought of trying to say something to him, but he had quickly determined that wasn’t a good idea, sensing that anything he said other than, “I’ve changed my mind,” would only serve to make Gil angrier.

At some point while they waited, Malcolm had become aware of something happening beyond Gil’s anger. Whenever he’d talked, Gil’s voice had sounded off, and though he was remaining upright, Malcolm could see the exhaustion weighing him down. He’d asked if Gil was alright, but he’d been brushed aside with Gil assuring him he was fine. When Malcolm offered to get up and make him some tea, Gil refused, and when Malcolm had tried to get up and do it anyways, Gil had towered over him with enough of a threat in his posture that Malcolm didn’t dare challenge him.

Malcolm had thought that Gil would calm when the others showed up, but again, he’d been wrong. He hadn’t been ready at all for Gil to snap in anger and call Jackie his mother. Malcolm would have never corrected either Gil or Jackie for making that connection, but he was well aware of the careful line Gil had to walk when it came to him and he wasn’t about to put pressure on the man over something as small as who were or were not his parents.

The pain that had struck Malcolm then had been so strong that he hadn’t been able to speak. He’d looked down to hide the tears in his eyes. Thankfully Dani had chosen that moment to insert herself into the conversation, otherwise things would have gotten even more emotionally charged really fast. Malcolm had kept his attention on Gil the rest of the evening, unhappy with what he was seeing. He wasn’t worried about Gil being angry with him - Gil would get past that eventually. No, what bothered him was seeing the pain and exhaustion in his face.

When JT had left and Dani had taken Gil’s used tea mug to the kitchen, Gil had sunk onto the coffee table, his expression intense with so many emotions. His first order of business had been to apologize for being so angry, explaining that he wasn’t as upset with Malcolm as he may seem. Malcolm had assured him that he knew that, and that he understood what Gil was feeling, but this was the best course of action. Gil had tensed again at that, but hadn’t argued.

After Dani had left, Gil had sighed so heavily that Malcolm had felt it in his heart. Wanting to ensure that Gil knew how he felt, he had assured Gil that Jackie _had been_ his mother, no matter what Jessica Whitly said. Tears had once again formed in his eyes and Malcolm allowed them to stay there as Gil’s head had snapped up, his own brown eyes filling. It had hurt to see Gil hurting, but Malcolm refused to allow any tears to fall as he’d assured Gil that he and Jackie were the parents Malcolm wished he’d had.

Deep-seeded pain brought Malcolm back to the present, throbbing through his ankle and radiating outwards from there. Malcolm hissed, lifting his foot off the ground as he did so, and then looked around. He’d managed to go through his exercises, drink his coffee, and grab his clothes all while on autopilot. Cool. Guessing that his ankle must have rolled under him on the last step coming down the stairs, Malcolm shrugged off the pain and limp-hopped to take a shower.

He had just finished getting dressed when the buzzer on his intercom went off. Brows wrinkling in confusion, Malcolm crutched over to find out who it was.

“It’s me,” Dani’s voice announced. “Gil thought you could use a ride into work this morning.”

Malcolm wasn’t sure that was precisely what Gil had said, but he didn’t argue. “Uh, okay. Great. Thanks. I’ll be right down.”

“Okay,” Dani said. “Be careful coming outside. It snowed last night and there’s a bit of ice by your door.”

It had snowed? Malcolm had thought it was cold, but he hadn’t realized it had been cold enough to snow. “Thanks for the warning,” he answered. “I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

As she advised, he was careful exiting the building. He didn’t see the ice she was talking about, but he felt it as the crutch on his left side started to slide.

“Good thing it wasn’t on the right,” she said from her spot by the car. “It would suck if Gil made you go to the doctor twice in one week.” She opened the passenger side door for him, remaining off to the side so she could put the crutches in the back seat once he was sitting.

Malcolm smiled. “Ah, but how would he know if we didn’t tell him?”

“Thanks, but I’m not stupid enough to lie to Gil,” Dani said, getting into the car then turning it on. The heat came on at full blast and Malcolm quickly turned it down. Sure, it was cold, but no one needed that much air in their face.

“Is he feeling better?” Malcolm asked as she pulled away from the curb.

“Not from what I heard,” Dani answered, keeping her eyes on the road. “He sounded congested, and I’m pretty sure I heard him cough, but you know Gil, if you ask him, he’ll tell you he’s fine.”

“Don’t I know it,” Malcolm said to show he’d heard since she wouldn’t see him nod. “Thanks for coming to get me,” he added when the conversation lapsed a little too long.

“No problem,” she answered. “I was on my way in anyways.”

Somehow Malcolm doubted that, but he didn’t contradict her. That Gil would have Dani come pick him up puzzled him. Any other day, Gil let him find his own ride in. Normally it was Adolpho sent by Mother, but sometimes it was something as simple as a cab. Why, then, had Dani been assigned? A suspicion of it being a gentler form of police protection made him smile. He didn’t say anything about it yet, though. He’d wait and see if the same, small occurrences happened during the day.

When they entered the precinct, neither one of them were surprised to find Gil already there. While Dani went to put her stuff at her desk, Malcolm headed for the conference room where Gil sat with his back to the windows. Spread out on the table were four piles of equal height files, one for each of them presumably. Beside Gil’s pile sat a legal pad, a pen, and his Yankee’s mug, the color of the liquid inside telling Malcolm that Gil was drinking tea instead of coffee.

“Good morning, Gil,” Malcolm cheerily greeted as he entered the room. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine,” Gil answered, sounding just as Dani had said he did. When he looked up, Malcolm noticed that his nose was red as well. Yep, Gil definitely had a cold. “You?”

“I’m fine,” Malcolm answered while heading for the chair to Gil’s right. “I see you left my spot open,” he added after he noticed the two spots from yesterday open, a pillow on one of them and a stack of files in front of the other. “This isn’t necessary,” he said, placing the crutches against the wall behind him then sitting down. “You know that, right?”

“Just give up, man,” JT said, entering the room with three cups. He handed the one that had a tea bag tag sticking out of it over to Gil, then handed Malcolm one of the other two. “He’s never going to agree with you.”

Though surprised, Malcolm took the cup from JT’s outstretched hand with a smile. “Thanks,” he said in a tone that showed how he felt. He couldn’t hide his shock. Technically, he hadn’t tried, but even if he had, he wouldn’t have been able to. Malcolm couldn’t remember the last time that JT brought him anything. Not voluntarily, at least. He couldn’t prove that JT had done this without instruction, but some instinct was telling Malcolm that he had. “So, who’s ready to dig into The Surgeon’s files?”

“I’m pretty sure you’re the only one who’s ready for that,” Dani commented as she came in, carrying her own cup of coffee and a bagel.

“Don’t be so sure of that,” Malcolm quietly answered, doing his best to keep derision out of his voice.

If he was entirely honest, Malcolm didn’t think he needed to go through The Surgeon’s victim files ever again. Over the years, he had spent a lot of time getting to know The Surgeon’s victims. He’d memorized their faces, their names, even their birthdays if the information was known. Over time, many of those facts had faded, but the faces hadn’t. When he wasn’t dreaming about the girl in the box, or one of his other many traumas, Malcolm saw their faces, frozen in expressions of agony and horror.

“But,” he added in a louder voice, plastering on a fake smile, “since Gil has taken the time to divide the files up into four piles, we might as well get started, right?”

Gil, who had remained silent since inquiring after Malcolm’s health, now inserted himself into the conversation. “Bright’s right. We should get started.” He waited until everyone had sat down, then he looked at Malcolm. “What should we be looking for?”

“Well, no offense to those who worked on the case back in ’98,” Malcolm side-eyed Gil since he was the only one Malcolm didn’t wish to offend, “but I think we need to look at everything with fresh eyes. Our killer is mimicking a crime that The Surgeon hasn’t yet been convicted of, which implies intimate knowledge of the kill. We’re looking for someone who has crossed paths with Doctor Whitly more than once. Don’t look for intimacy; chances are good you won’t find it. Instead, look for the slightest things such as them merely working in the same place, being in the same restaurant on more than one occasion, things like that.”

“Wouldn’t the original investigators have already done that?” Dani asked. “What do you think we’re going to find that they didn’t?”

“The original investigators weren’t necessarily looking for connections,” Malcolm argued. He sat forward, placing his arms on the table. “At that time, they were more concerned with connecting Doctor Whitly to the evidence they’d found. It’s possible they tried to find a connection between my father and his victims, but they didn’t look for connections between him and a possible accomplice.”

“You think our killer is an accomplice?” Gil asked with surprise in his voice.

“I can’t rule the possibility out,” Malcolm hedged. He wasn’t entirely convinced of that at all, but like he said, he couldn’t rule it out either. Until he knew for certain one way or the other, it was best to keep all their options open. Gil looked unsatisfied with that answer, but he didn’t argue so Malcolm continued. “The point is, we have a different objective than the cops who investigated this over ten years ago. _And_ we have the luxury of time, they did not. We can take our time, go through each of these files with the fine toothed comb that the other cops weren’t given.” Taking a breath, Malcolm added, “And, I’m going to ask The Surgeon to help us.”

“Do you think he’ll help?” Gil asked, his tone curious yet skeptical.

Malcolm couldn’t blame Gil for his doubt. The Surgeon had never once directly answered any question hehad asked during his visits. Not when it came to his victims, at least. Martin Whitly was always happy to discuss other people’s kills, the weather, things in Malcolm’s life, but he would always dance around the subject of his own crimes. Malcolm didn’t know what it was that had him going back to his father for help, but whatever it was, it wasn’t going to let him stop now.

Looking around the table, Malcolm saw that both JT and Dani were curious about the answer as well. Where Gil’s expression held doubt, however, the other two just wanted to know yes or no.

“I’m not sure,” Malcolm answered honestly. “The Surgeon has a tendency to deflect any questions that are put to him when it comes to his victims.”

“But you think this time will be different?” Dani asked, with doubt now in her voice as well.

“Possibly. The circumstances this time are different, and I think that will be what pushes him to be more forthcoming than usual.”

“You mean because you’re the target,” Dani clarified and Malcolm nodded.

“Dude’s a serial killer,” JT interjected. “I’m not sure he’s capable of caring about anyone but himself.”

Much as Malcolm didn’t want to admit it, it hurt to hear that. One of the foundational truths of his childhood was that his father loved him. Over time, it had changed to fit with Malcolm’s better understanding of his father, but it had remained fixed nonetheless. Given his father’s psychopathy, Malcolm knew that JT had every right to question whether or not Martin Whitly could ever truly love or care about anyone other than himself, but it still pained him to hear it said aloud.

“He may not show it like you or I would,” Malcolm argued, inwardly wincing at how defensive he sounded. “But he does feel love. It’s more a matter of what’s more important to him, my safety or his?”

“And you’re thinking he will choose you?” Dani asked.

Did he? He wasn’t sure. On the one hand, Malcolm had that unshakeable belief that his father loved him, but on the other, Malcolm knew how important Martin Whitly was to Martin Whitly. “Either way, I’m going to see him tomorrow. I guess we’ll find out then.”

Seeing no other reason to argue, the group got to work.

**oOo**

By the end of the workday, everyone felt drained. Or maybe that was just Gil projecting how he felt onto everyone else, because as he looked around, he noticed that, though frustrated, both Dani and JT appeared perfectly fine when they left. Stifling the urge to cough, Gil took a drink of his tea and snuck a look at Bright.

The kid sat with his left arm supporting his head while he continued to stare down at the same file he’d been looking at for the past thirty minutes. With a pen in his right hand, he used his fingertips to flip through the pages attached to the folder. When they’d first started, Bright had looked hesitant, but determined. Now, he looked haunted.

What he was looking for, Gil hadn’t a clue. Although the kid had written down plenty, when it had come time to compare notes, he’d said that he’d gotten the same thing they all had - nothing. Jessica’s idea that Malcolm was doing penance for his father’s crimes came to him and Gil sighed. The kid had nothing to feel guilty for; he’d done far more than many others in his position would have. Yet, as they had gone over file after file, Gil had watched as Bright had taken in each case, laying the blame for it on his own shoulders rather than his father’s.

Standing up, Gil began to collect all the evidence, ignoring the pounding in his head and the ache in his chest which had been plaguing him all afternoon. He honestly hadn’t felt that bad when he’d woken up this morning, but the more the day progressed, the quicker that changed. The team had tried to help as best they could, but there was only so much that could be done while he was at work. He was thoroughly sick of tea, but at the same time it felt good on his throat, so he kept drinking the fresh cup that was conveniently ready when he needed it.

“Whatcha workin on?” he asked, doing his best to keep his tone nonchalant.

Bright was so focused on what he was doing that it took a minute for him to realize someone had spoken to him. “Huh?” he asked, looking up. “Oh, it’s nothing,” he dismissed a little too quickly, “just making sure I didn’t miss anything. You know, dotting my i’s and crossing my t’s.”

Gil was about to argue that when the kid’s phone vibrated on the table. Curiosity got the better of him and looked at the caller ID, his curiosity growing when he saw that it was Claremont Psychiatric calling. Frowning, the kid answered the phone. “Hello? This is he.” The kid looked up at him, first with worry, then with confusion. “Alright, well, let me know when he’s well enough for visitors.” Knowing that Malcolm would tell him without asking, Gil patiently waited for him to speak. “Apparently, my dad is sick and can’t receive visitors,” he said, his tone making it seem like the idea was odd.

“That’s convenient,” Gil said, giving voice to what they were both thinking. “Did they say when they expect him to be well enough for visitors?”

“Would it surprise you to learn that they didn’t?”

“Not really, no.” Gil waited a moment, then asked, “Do you think he knows what’s going on and wants to avoid the conversation?”

Malcolm shook his head. “My father is an excellent dancer. He would still see me because he could easily avoid the question.”

“So, you think he’s really sick then,” Gil surmised. He took a minute, not wanting to ask this next question, but at the same time feeling like he should. Gil may not care if Martin Whitly lived, but the kid would. “Is he okay?”

“Yeah, he’ll be fine. It’s a stomach bug or something.” Seeming to push aside whatever it was he was actually thinking, Malcolm closed the file then sat back in the chair.

“Let me get these packed up, then I’ll take you home,” Gil said, grabbing the last file and placing it inside the storage box.

“You don’t have to, Gil,” Malcolm declined. “I’m supposed to meet Ainsley at Mother’s in a few hours, and you should go home and get some rest.”

Gil almost commented on the ability to dance around a subject being an inherited trait, but he held his tongue. While he would have said it in jest, Malcolm would not have taken it like one and he didn’t want to do that to the kid. “Sounds like you have plenty of time before you need to be at your mother’s,” he said, ignoring Bright’s comment about him needing rest. “Gather your things and I’ll take you home.”

When the kid didn’t automatically say anything, Gil paused what he was doing to check on him. His stomach sunk when he saw Malcolm watching him with keen interest. The kid’s chair was turned in Gil’s direction, his head cocked to the side, and his eyes narrowed in the way he does when he’s thinking. When a soft smile appeared on Malcolm’s face, warming the blue in his eyes, Gil knew he’d been had.

“I thought we agreed on no police protection,” the kid said, his voice almost teasing.

“We did,” Gil confirmed, though he was sorely tempted to remind the profiler that he hadn’t agreed so much as given in. Signing the return slip for Archives, Gil then placed the lid on the box.

“And yet, you refuse to let me go anywhere without you or Dani with me.”

Gil looked at Malcolm out of the corner of his eye. “I can’t be cautious?”

“I get that you’re worried,” Bright assured, sitting forward. His whole manner showed concerned reassurance, as though he were trying to soften bad news. “But we need the killer to make contact, and he’s not likely to do that with a constant police escort following me around.”

If Gil was being perfectly honest, that was fine with him. Technically, it wasn’t because he truly wanted to catch the killer, but not if that meant sacrificing Bright; the kid meant more to him than getting a murder off the street. The trouble was, he knew Malcolm wouldn’t agree. For the profiler, catching killers was the end-all. It was more important to him than his health, and definitely more important than his life. Their current killer targeting Malcolm specifically, essentially calling him out, only served to raise the stakes, making the kid more reckless than usual.

“I know that you don’t like this,” Bright continued, the softness in his voice reminding Gil of how Jackie would talk to him when she saw him worrying about the kid. The pain of missing her closed Gil’s throat, making it hard for him to breathe. Gil ducked his head to hide his reaction, listening with his eyes burning as Malcolm continued talking. “I won’t say you shouldn’t worry because we both know something could go wrong, but this is my decision; this is what I want.” He paused, then added, “Besides, if something goes wrong, I know you’ll have my back.”

Gil smiled, appreciating the vote of confidence. The idea of something happening to Bright made his heart skip a beat or two, though, so he changed the subject. “Let me take this to the front and grab my stuff, then we can go.”

Knowing that Bright would get ready to go on his own since Gil hadn’t moved the crutches out of his reach, Gil picked the box up and headed for the front. In spite of himself, he couldn’t stop the idea of the killer getting his hands on the kid. The scenarios changed with every step he took, but the end result was always the same - Malcolm beaten and broken beyond repair. Promising himself that would happen over his dead body, Gil dropped the box off with the receptionist, then headed to his office to grab his things.

When Malcolm met him outside the conference room, the image of the kid after the killer was through with him sprung back into Gil’s mind and he clenched his teeth in anger. If Bright noticed his reaction, he didn’t show it, offering a smile before they headed for the door.

_Yes, kid, I have your back. No matter the cost._

**TBC**


	8. Chapter 8

**VII**

_ Don’t forget about dinner.  _

Ainsley looked down at her phone, then rolled her eyes. Like she could forget it. She’d received so many text messages from her mother today she was pretty sure she was going to go to sleep tonight, thinking:  _ Don’t forget about dinner _ . 

For a minute, she debated continuing with her notes, but if she didn’t shut down and leave now, she  _ would  _ be late for dinner and then she’d never hear the end of it. Pressing Control-S, Ainsley turned her computer off. Her story was turning out well, but she’d hit a wall as far as information was concerned, so she’d switched to transferring her notes to the computer. She’d called Claremont to schedule a visit with her father, but they had said it would be a while before he could speak with her so she’d scheduled time next week and then hung up, frustrated. 

Grabbing her things, Ainsley headed out the door. She sent her brother a text to remind him to be there tonight while she waited for a cab. There was no way in Hell she was going to be alone with their mother if she didn’t have to be. She knew that Malcolm could try to claim his new case as a reason not to come, but she doubted he would. She may not know precisely what’s going on yet, but she  _ did _ know there wasn’t enough happening to keep Malcolm from having dinner with his family. From what she’d heard, he’d spent the entire day at the precinct actually, which was abnormal for him, but probably good since he was hurt. 

_ I’m on my way as we speak,  _ he typed back and she smiled. Good. She had questions for him and she fully intended to interrogate him while at the dinner table. 

She had still been at work last night when Olivia had called to update Ainsley on how her meeting with Malcolm had gone. Ainsley had tried not to be rude when she’d answered the phone, but Olivia had heard the annoyance in her tone when she’d picked up all the same. She’d offered to call back later, saying that whatever she had to say could wait, but Ainsley, feeling guilty for being gruff with her friend, had assured her that she wanted to hear how it all went. 

The fact that Malcolm had been standoffish with Olivia hadn’t surprised Ainsley. With the amount of water under the bridge between them, she hadn’t expected her brother to immediately open up to Olivia. He would wait, see where their conversation was going, use his skill as a profiler to see what Olivia wanted to get out of their meeting, before he would decide how to interact with her. Whether or not Olivia had thought of any of that, she hadn’t asked since it seemed like her friend simply wanted to rant. She’d let Olivia’s voice wash over her, returning her attention to her work while her friend talked. 

Then Olivia had mentioned the manner of Malcolm’s departure and Ainsley had found herself getting interested. The fact that his erratic behavior was preceded by his phone going off meant that something had happened to set him off. When Ainsley had asked what Malcolm’s expression had been, Olivia had paused for a minute, then had said that he’d looked scared, leading Ainsley to believe that it was possible the killer had contacted her brother. Olivia hadn’t been able to say one way or the other, but Ainsley was sure of it. 

If she was honest with herself, Ainsley was a bit miffed that Malcolm hadn’t told her about any of this. They both knew that he didn’t want to give her anything for a story, but she also thought he should be able to trust her discretion enough to tell her when a murder was toying with him. Then again, she probably  _ would have  _ used it for a story, so perhaps she couldn’t blame him too much for his reserve. 

The cab pulled up outside her mother’s house, and Ainsley took a moment to prepare herself for the next hour or so. Dinner with Mother was always an ordeal. Not that she ever did anything too drastic during most of the meals, but simply dealing with her mother was a thing for Ainsley. 

Growing up, Ainsley hadn’t ever really felt close to her mother. Jessica Whitly would profess to love her, but more often than not, Ainsley never really felt it. In spite of the fact that it was obvious Mother preferred her brother, Ainsley had grown up feeling closest with Malcolm. Whenever she had woken up screaming from a nightmare, he had been there to comfort her. When she had come home crying because of bullies, he had been there, and had even gone after a few of them, using the rumors going round the school that he was psycho like his father to his advantage to scare the children into leaving Ainsley alone. All things considered,  _ Malcolm  _ had raised her more than her mother, or her nanny, had. 

_ Not that Mother would ever admit that,  _ she thought as she walked up to the front door, already plastering on a fake smile. Oh, Ainsley knew, and understood, that she had done the best she could at the time, but she also knew that it hadn’t been enough, and that her brother had filled the void both her mother and father had left. 

Squeaking brakes behind her had Ainsley turning around in time to see Mother’s car pull up to the curb. Figuring it was more likely her brother than her mother inside the vehicle, Ainsley headed for the car. 

“On your way as you type, huh?” Ainsley teased, standing by the door that Adolpho had opened before heading to the trunk. He came back with a set of crutches, standing patiently by the door while Malcolm awkwardly climbed out. 

“Well,” her brother said, taking the crutches from the driver and shifting to a more stable position. “I’m moving a bit slower these days, Ains. It takes me longer to get out to the car than normal.” 

“Excuses, excuses,” she answered, offering a smile. She would have nudged him, but she didn’t want to knock him off balance. They fell into step easily, Ainsley slowing her pace to match his. “So you gonna tell me what happened?” 

“It’s nothing, Ains,” he placated. “I wasn’t watching what I was doing and I fell down the stairs at my loft.” 

The all-too-casual way he explained it made Ainsley think there was more to the story, but she let the matter drop for now. If she wanted to get anything out of him tonight, she couldn’t put his hackles up too early. 

Mother’s housekeeper answered the door, stepping aside to let them in and then waiting patiently for their coats. Having heard the doorbell, Mother came out of the parlor, dressed phenomenally as always. Her brows wrinkled in confusion. “Did you two come together?” 

“No,” Malcolm answered, shedding his coat while using the crutches to keep balanced. “Just a happy coincidence.” 

Ainsley watched her mother silently take in Malcolm’s crutches and raised right leg with furrowed brows; evidently Malcolm hadn’t told her he was injured. To be fair, he hadn’t told Ainsley either, Olivia had, but at least she’d had previous warning of it. “Do I want to know what happened?” Mother asked, sounding both wary and tired. 

“It’s nothing, I wasn’t watching what I was doing and I fell down the stairs at the loft,” Malcolm assured, repeating his answer to Ainsley almost verbatim. Was his response practiced? Or had he simply repeated it so many time that it came out automatically? 

Satisfied, Mother nodded then turned around and headed for the dining room. Knowing that her brother enough of a gentleman to let her go first, Ainsley automatically followed her mother with Malcolm bringing up the rear. 

Dinner tonight was soup, and Ainsley didn’t wonder why. It was freezing outside and soup was the perfect meal to warm them up. The fact that Malcolm seemed to eat more when soup was served than anything else, no doubt also played a part, but Ainsley chose to believe it was because of the weather. The fireplace behind where Mother sat was lit and roaring brightly as they entered, and Ainsley immediately thought the room warmer. 

Ainsley didn’t know precisely  _ when  _ they had assigned themselves seats. It must have happened sometime during middle school, but she couldn’t be positive. They each definitely had seats they preferred to sit in, though, and they gravitated to them now. Ainsley wanted to tell Malcolm to take her side since it would be easier on him, but she refrained because she knew Malcolm would decline, proclaiming to be perfectly fine and able to walk around the table. 

The beginning part of the meal went by pretty smoothly. Neither Ainsley nor Mother had tried to coddle Malcolm, and he seemed to relax when it became obvious they didn’t have any intentions on trying to. Until that moment, Ainsley hadn’t realized just how tense he’d been and it bothered her. Being as close with Malcolm as she was, Ainsley thought herself the best at reading him, yet he was still able to hide so much from her. Was he distancing himself from her or was she just so absorbed in her own life that she couldn’t see the clues in him like she normally could?

“So, Malcolm,” Mother said in a tone that immediately made warning bells sound in Ainsley’s brain. Looking over at her brother, Ains saw the same instinct kicking in with him. Okay. She wasn’t  _ completely  _ losing her touch. “I heard that you took a meeting with Olivia Bertrand yesterday.” 

At that, Malcolm’s gaze flicked to Ainsley, his expression annoyed. “Don’t look at me,” Ainsley said, holding up her hands in defense. “I didn’t say anything.” She wouldn’t ever willingly put herself in the middle of  _ that  _ minefield. 

“Believe it or not, dear, I have sources  _ other than  _ your sister,” Mother said, her tone practically rolling her eyes for her. 

“Really? Who?” Ainsley asked. Perhaps she could make them  _ her  _ sources, find out more for the story. 

Her mother briefly looked over at her, her expression saying ‘nice try’, before she refocused on Malcolm. Ainsley shrugged. She hadn’t really expected her mother to name names, but she figured she’d might as well try anyways. When Ainsley met her brother’s eyes, they were shining with amusement; he never could stay mad at her for long. 

“I must say I was surprised, given how she treated you,” Mother continued. Her tone was the same as whenever she referred to Malcolm’s work, her disapproval evident in every note. 

At first, she had been all for her children spending time with the Bertrands; their own home had too many memories and Malcolm always seemed to get lost in them when he spent too much time there. But when Malcolm had come home with a black eye and favoring his right arm after a run-in with Olivia’s brother, Robert, Mother’s approval had quickly evaporated. She’d called Olivia’s mother, furious, and demanding that she tell her son to keep his hands off Malcolm. Emily Bertrand had done what she could, but it hadn’t been enough. Robert’s bullying didn’t stop, but Mother had believed it had because Malcolm had gotten good at hiding the pain. 

Her problem with Olivia hadn’t started until she’d “abandoned” Malcolm for college. At first she had believed that Olivia would contact Malcolm, thinking that she had just needed time to settle in before she called. But when it soon became obvious that wouldn’t happen, Mother had grown furious. Knowing precisely who to blame for that, she had been practically giddy when Olivia’s father had died, calling Malcolm when she’d found out to let him know. But when Olivia still didn’t call, her anger had turned to hate and she had actively avoided the Bertrand family from then on, going so far as to not even tell Malcolm when Emily had died. 

“It’s not what you think,” Malcolm assured. His gaze briefly flicked towards Ainsley, his expression showing he didn’t want to get into this. “Gil called me yesterday morning with a case at Olivia’s house. While I was there, she asked for a meeting and set it for after the workday.” 

That wasn’t  _ exactly  _ how it had gone down, but Ainsley didn’t contradict him. There were definitely some facts Mother didn’t need to know and the fact that Malcolm had, essentially, offered an olive branch while he’d been at Olivia’s in the morning was one of them. That didn’t mean that Ainsley would let him get away with dancing around other details. 

  
“Why did you run out so suddenly?” she asked, drawing both her mother’s and her brother’s attention to her. 

Mother looked confused, obviously sensing that something more was going on, but not knowing what. “How do you know that he did?” she asked, her voice half challenging, half curious. 

Ah yes. Ainsley forgot that she hadn’t told Mother she was friends with Olivia. Even if she’d remembered, she still would have asked, but she might have made it sound like she’d heard through the grapevine rather than right from the source. Ainsley knew that she could easily play it off like she’d heard it from someone other than Olivia, but the challenging expression in Malcolm’s eyes defied her to lie. 

Setting her spoon down, Ainsley sighed. “I’m friends with Olivia.” As her mother’s face clouded with anger, Ainsley hurried on. “She called me a little over a year ago when she came back into town. At first, I didn’t return her calls. But then she cornered me at work and begged me to meet her. We talked and, we became friends.”

“Did you tell your brother that she was back?” Mother asked, her tone indicating she thought Ainsley should have. 

“No,” Malcolm answered. “And she shouldn’t have had to. Her friendship with Olivia was none of my business, and since I was still with the FBI, the fact that Olivia was back in town was also none of my business.” 

Gratitude made Ainsley offer her brother a smile. 

Ever since she had snapped at him yesterday, Ainsley had felt guilty for it. She had refused to feel bad for it at the time, or even to apologize for being gruff with him, but the longer she’d thought about it, the more guilty she felt. He hadn’t been admonishing her, at least not on purpose. Malcolm had a habit of pointing out the obvious when he was surprised, and it had been clear that her friendship with Olivia had surprised him. It hadn’t taken a genius to figure out that he’d been blindsided when Olivia had used Ainsley as her alibi and he’d reacted to the information the only way he’d known - by investigating it. 

Malcolm gave her a small nod of acknowledgement, showing he’d understood and agreed with her point yesterday. Rather than softening, however, his expression remained hard, his glance a warning to her to drop the subject. But as much as she wanted to heed him, Ainsley couldn’t do it - she had to know what was going on. 

“Olivia said that you looked scared when you left. Did something happen?” 

“Oh, Ainsley, you can’t trust that woman to be able to read Malcolm like you or I can,” Mother interjected, quickly coming to Malcolm’s defense. She may not know what was going on, but Ainsley knew her mother could read Malcolm’s discomfort as easily as Ainsley did and she was quick to try and ease it. “For all we know, he could have simply wanted to leave and she had misinterpreted that as fear.” 

Ignoring her mother’s attempts to find another explanation, Ainsley said, “She said that you’d received a text message right before you’d left. I’m assuming it was the killer?” 

Malcolm visibly swallowed, the expression in his eyes a curious mix of fear and anger. Yeah, Ainsley had thought that was what had happened. Now she had her proof. 

Mother looked between her and Malcolm, her gaze taking in the silent interaction between brother and sister. Something bordering on panic seeped into her voice as she asked, “Malcolm, is this true?” 

Malcolm closed his eyes, looking like he was preparing himself for the conversation ahead. “It’s not as bad as it sounds,” he assured.

“ _ How  _ is the killer sending you a message not bad?” Mother countered, her panic now coming through loud and clear. She stood up and headed for her favorite crutch to lean on. Filling her glass with gin, she turned back around to face them, leaning against the bar. “Does Gil know about this?” 

Ah yes, Gil. Ainsley’s relationship with Gil Arroyo wasn’t the same as Malcolm’s in any way, shape, or form. Whereas Malcolm saw the lieutenant as a father, a replacement almost for the one he’d lost, Ainsley viewed the man as something closer to a distant uncle. He had often stopped by the house to check in on Malcolm, or to take him on some stakeout. Sometimes Ainsley tagged along, mostly when they were going to Gil’s and Jackie’s home; sometimes she didn’t. Not that she had ever  _ wanted  _ to go on stakeouts or to the precinct, but she had felt Malcolm’s absence when he was gone. 

As she had grown, Gil had tried his best to be there for her like he’d been for Malcolm, but Ainsley held him at arm’s length, believing that he cared more about Malcolm than he did her and not wanting his obligatory love. Things hadn’t gotten any better when she became a reporter, either. She was often a thorn in his side, slipping past his barriers and intruding on his cases. 

Ainsley knew that, although her mother didn’t have the same, sticky relationship with Gil that Ainsley did, she didn’t necessarily like Gil, either. The fact that Ainsley could hear hope in her mother’s voice when she mentioned the lieutenant showed just how desperate Mother was to protect Malcolm. 

“Yes, he does,” Malcolm confirmed. “And he’s willing to trust that I can handle this.” 

“Of course he is,” Mother answered snidely, taking another sip of her drink. “Anything to solve a case.” 

Now it was Ainsley’s turn to take a drink. Sure, it was only wine, but still. Malcolm could tolerate a lot. He wasn’t like most men whose hackles rose when their dignity was insulted or their pride was wounded. He knew he had issues, and he knew his limits. People could say whatever they wanted about him, and more often than not, he would agree with them. But when it came to people insulting those he cared about?  _ That  _ was something he could not stand. Malcolm had a protective nature and it always flared when someone he loved was attacked. 

Ainsley watched as her brother’s jaw clenched, his right hand forming a fist. It was a reaction she had often seen from him when she was younger, his anger quiet but strong. Malcolm was never going to be the type to yell, or burst out in rage; he’d learned how to curb his reactions, how to hide them beneath a mask that others took for nonchalance. When it came to their mother, Malcolm would shut down when he was angry; often giving one word answers to Mother’s questions if he answered at all. 

On the table, Malcolm’s phone went off, sending vibrations through the wood. Ainsley silently gasped in surprise, sighing and smiling as she exhaled. Malcolm grabbed the phone and Ainsley watched as he froze for a minute, his eyes roaming over the screen. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, tucking his phone into his jacket pocket and pushing away from the table. “I have to go.” 

“Well isn’t that convenient?” Mother quipped and both Malcolm and Ainsley threw her a glare, though for differing reasons. Ainsley understood that her mother was worried, and that she often expressed that through anger, but she knew the attitude her mother kept giving Malcolm wasn’t helping anything. Rolling her eyes at her children, she pushed herself away from the bar. “I’ll call Adolpho to take you home.” 

Jaw still clenched, Malcolm nodded. Ainsley had half expected her brother to deny the help, but clearly he saw the advantage of leaving sooner rather than later and so took the offer. “Mind if I join you?” she asked once her mother had gone. “I can find my own ride from your place if you can’t drop me off at mine.” 

“I don’t know,” Malcolm answered, limp-hopping to grab the crutches against the wall behind him. “Do you plan on interrogating me the entire ride there?” His tone was teasing, the small glint in his eyes hinting at that, but Ainsley thought she detected a genuine concern underneath all of it. 

Pretending to think about it, Ainsley answered, “Not the  _ entire  _ ride.” He gave a slight smile in response, but said nothing. Ainsley sighed, walking with him to the front door. “You know you can tell me things, right?” she asked, keeping her voice low so only he could hear her. “You can trust me to keep my mouth shut.” 

“Can I?” he asked without malice, showing that he genuinely didn’t know the answer and Ainsley’s heart hurt upon hearing it. 

Her touch was gentle as she forced him to stop and look at her, making sure that she allowed him time to adjust to the change in pace and position. “I promise,” she swore, meaning it. “I know you think that I’m always after a story, and I won’t deny that most of the time, I am, but sometimes, it’s my only way of finding out what’s going on in your life.” He looked confused at that, and Ainsley would have bet that that thought never occurred to him. “You don’t confide in me, Malcolm. I don’t know if it’s because you think you’re protecting me, or what you think you’re protecting me from, but you keep me at arm’s length, and I don’t know how to get you to open up to me.” 

“There are things about me that you don’t need to know,” he answered, sounding almost tired. 

“I know,” Ainsley assured. “But there are things that I do need to know.” He slightly cocked his head to the right in a question. “If I hadn’t deduced the fact that the killer was in contact with you, would you have told either Mother or me?” 

“No, why would I?” 

“Because this puts you in danger?” 

“That’s exactly why I wouldn’t tell you,” Malcolm argued, his voice raising ever so slightly. He sighed, licked his lips, then added, “All of my life, Mother has done nothing but worry about me, to the point of not noticing when you needed her.” Out of the corner of her eye, Ainsley saw her mother enter the room and freeze, evidently having heard what Malcolm had said. Malcolm’s focus was solely on Ainsley, though, and as a result, he didn’t appear to have noticed their mother’s entrance. “I don’t need her worrying about me with this. I don’t need her thinking she could have done something differently if something goes wrong.” 

Ainsley’s heart skipped a beat as the impact of her brother’s thoughts and fears bowled her over. “Do you think something is going to happen?” 

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I hope not, but this guy wants something from me, and my involvement makes it hard for me to predict what he’ll do.” 

“Then shouldn’t you remove yourself from the equation?” Mother interjected, announcing her presence at last. 

With her hands still on his arms, Ainsley felt her brother jump at the sound of their mother’s voice. His eyes widened and he slightly pivoted to look at her. “That’s not going to help,” he answered after a couple of minutes. “I am the link between him and his victims. If I disappear, we run the chance of losing him.” 

“And that’s something you aren’t okay with,” Ainsley added, knowing that’s what her brother was ultimately getting at. 

Ainsley knew she would never fully understand the damage their father had done to Malcolm, but she did know that Malcolm felt guilty for not stopping him sooner. Though he had only been a child at the time, Malcolm had carried the responsibility for not saving more of their father’s victims solely on his shoulders. Each killer he captured while working as a profiler was one mark to help balance the ledger he kept in his head. 

When she had first found out how he felt, Ainsley had done her best to change his mind. She had tried assuring him that he’d done all he could, and when that hadn’t worked, she’d tried to use logic against him. Nothing had helped, though, and she had resigned herself to the fact that he was always going to feel guilty for something he absolutely could not have controlled. It frustrated her to no end, but she had learned to accept that it was a part of him, and love him in spite of it. 

Sighing in frustration, Mother said, “Adolpho’s out front with the car.” 

Malcolm nodded to show he’d heard, but he said nothing. He looked exhausted and tense, and Ainsley wasn’t sure if he could take much more emotion from anyone. She walked towards her mother while her brother put his coat on. “I’m going to go home with him,” she said, making sure to make it sound like he needed someone to make sure he got home rather than what it really was - she was escaping from the rest of the evening alone with her mother as fast as she could. “Thank you for dinner. It was delicious.” 

Something about the evening must have shown her mother that it wouldn’t do any good to argue, because she nodded, accepting Ainsley’s excuse, then gave Ainsley a kiss on the cheek. Now that she was closer, Ainsley saw that Malcolm wasn’t the only one the evening had taken a toll on. Bags under her mother’s eyes stood out sharply under the makeup, the worry in her blue eyes so strong that Ainsley felt it like it was her own.

Refusing to feel guilty because she was the cause of the distress her family was in, Ainsley tightly hugged her mother then quickly followed her brother out the front door and to the car. While he got in, Ainsley went around to the other side and climbed in as well, thankful for the heat that surrounded her. She watched as her brother shifted so that he was more settled in the seat, grimacing as he did so. She hated seeing him hurting, no matter if it was physically, emotionally, or mentally. 

Ainsley’s protective instincts flared as she remembered the text he’d received at the dinner table and his desire to go home. She had originally planned on heading home when they arrived, but she quickly changed her mind. She may not be able to do much, but there was no way she was going to let her brother potentially meet up with a killer on his own. Now she just had to convince him to let her help him, and that was going to be the hard part.

  
  


**TBC**

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh m'gosh, I'm so pleased. I wrote this chapter long before we got episode 12 and I'm so pleased to see that how I viewed certain things (Malcolm's guilt for not stopping his father sooner, mainly) was spot-on. Yay! 
> 
> Hope you enjoy! 
> 
> M


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) I'm posting this earlier than my once a week plan because I'm getting closer to the fun stuff (the kidnapping, the torture) and I'm excited. It won't happen for another couple of chapters, so if you're anxiously awaiting it, have no fear, you're almost there :) Once chapter 10 is posted, I'll go back to the prologue and add a node for future readers so they know what chapter to skip to to get to the good stuff. 
> 
> Until then, here's 8! 
> 
> 2) We have more Edrisa in this chapter, yay! Hopefully I got her character right. 
> 
> 3) I am not a profiler (obviously) so everything to do with Malcolm's profile could very well be so off the mark it's hilarious. Forgive me. I did the best I could, lol.

**VIII**

  
  
  


The ride to Malcolm’s loft was spent in silence, a fact for which he was grateful. Dinner had been about as emotionally charged as he had expected it to be, but even so, he needed the time the car ride gave him to sort through it all. 

It hadn’t surprised him when Ains had brought up his departure from Olivia’s last night. He’d figured Olivia would tell his sister all about it, and had counted on Ains bringing it up when they’d sat down to dinner. Which wasn’t to say that he knew how he would answer her questions. No, no matter how much Malcolm had thought about it, he hadn’t been able to come up with any answer that would satisfy her, or not scare his mother, while not telling her the truth. 

Mother had reacted much as he had thought she would - with barely disguised panic. Having expected that, Malcolm had reassured her as best he could, throwing a glare at his sister for making her worry unnecessarily. Ainsley hadn’t looked at all sorry, and that had bothered Malcolm more than he had thought it would. Mother’s snide comment against Gil hadn’t surprised him, but it had most definitely angered him. 

A lot of that anger still remained, so Malcolm stared out the window, watching the snow-covered city pass by in the quiet. Whether Ains sensed his mood, or she simply had other things on her mind, he didn’t know, but the end result was that she let him be, staring out her own window and looking just as lost in thought as he was. 

Although his phone was burning a hole in his pocket, Malcolm refrained from pulling it out to look at the text the killer had sent him; it was too close of quarters in the back seat of the Town Car and he didn’t want or need it being the first story on the morning news. Because, no matter what she said, Malcolm didn’t feel that he could fully trust Ainsley not to report on something if he told her not to. Malcolm loved his sister, but he both knew and understood that she would put their trust to the sidelines if it meant advancing her career. 

All too soon, they pulled up to the curb outside the loft and Malcolm prepared to begin making small talk with Ains once they were upstairs. As much as he didn’t want to let her up, Malcolm wasn’t about to leave her out in the cold, something he’d been resigned to the minute she’d offered to accompany him home. 

Home. Malcolm leaned against the car, waiting for the crutches to be brought to him, and surveyed the building in front of him. Could this ever be his home? The main door had so many graffiti markings that the original color underneath was unrecognizable, the neighborhood wasn’t the best (though certainly not the worst), and his mother could come and go as she pleased. But in spite of all of that, it wasn’t the building that was making him hesitate, it was his memories, or lack thereof sometimes. Could he call New York City home in spite of all that had happened, and continues to happen, to him? 

“You ready?” 

Ainsley’s voice brought him back to the present, and Malcolm shivered when he felt the cold November air. Offering his sister a smile, he said, “Yeah.” Watching where he stepped, Malcolm pulled out his key, his brows furrowing as a thought occurred to him. “Couldn’t you have had Adolpho take you to your place?” 

“I don’t know, I didn’t ask,” Ainsley absently answered. A look over his shoulder showed she was on her phone. Who she could possibly be messaging, Malcolm didn’t know and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know either. She waited until they were exiting the elevator before she added, “I don’t plan on going home right away.” 

That made him freeze, his key in the lock to his front door, Sunshine chirping merrily within. “What do you mean? I thought you said you were going to go home when we got here.” 

“I did,” she confirmed, a glint in her eyes. “But I didn’t say  _ when  _ I would head home, did I?” 

Malcolm rolled his eyes. There had been an understanding that she wouldn’t be hanging around, he was sure of it, but he also knew he couldn’t argue semantics with her because it wouldn’t work. So, he did the only thing he could - he let her inside. He would have stepped aside to let her enter and then closed the door behind her, but then he noticed the box sitting on the kitchen island. Not wanting Ainsley to see it, Malcolm headed straight for it, using his body to block her view of him slipping the box into his coat pocket. 

“You okay, bro?” Ainsley asked as she locked the door. Her expression said she’d noticed he was acting weird and her tone agreed. 

“Yeah, fine,” Malcolm answered with a smile. Making a show of being more tired than he felt, he said, “Just needed to sit down, that’s all.” 

Ainsley didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t argue, merely nodded and moved on. She looked around the loft, her gaze settling on the stairs. “How did you get dressed this morning?”

“I went upstairs and grabbed clothes,” Malcolm answered like it was obvious. “How else would I have done it?” 

“Of course you did,” Ainsley said, rolling her eyes. Placing her jacket and purse onto one of the other stools at the island she headed for the stairs. “Tell me what you want to wear tonight for bed and tomorrow for the day.” 

“Ains, you don’t have to do that. I’m perfectly capable of grabbing my own clothes.” 

A brief look at the staircase showed Malcolm that the stair that had broken had been replaced and he had to stop himself from reacting to that. Had Mother sent someone to fix it? No, she hadn’t even known that it was broken. Had the killer fixed it when he’d dropped the box off? Likely, and alarming. 

“Just because you  _ can  _ do something, doesn’t mean you  _ should _ ,” Ainsley argued, heading upstairs in her Jimmy Choos with an ease that Malcolm marveled at. For the life of him, he couldn’t understand how women wore high heels. “You and I both know that you shouldn’t be going up and down those stairs with your ankle injured,” she added, her voice easily carrying down to Malcolm. “Now, what do you want to wear? You know what, never mind. I’ll pick something out - your clothes are all pretty much the same anyways.” 

Feeling a bit like his mother was there rather than his sister, Malcolm sighed. Ainsley came back down with a black suit and tie, a white shirt, and a change of underclothes in her hands. Without a word, she hung the suit up on the bathroom door and laid the other clothes on his bed. Her phone chimed and she looked down at it. “My ride’s here,” she announced, sounding like she didn’t actually want to leave. Walking over, she slipped into her coat. “Do you need anything before I go?” 

“I’m fine,” he assured with warmth in his tone. “Thanks Ains.” 

Ainsley leaned down and kissed him on the cheek. She hesitated before walking out the door, pivoting and looking at him with worry. “Be careful, okay?” Sensing that she was showing a bit too much of her feelings, she added, “I don’t want to have to deal with mom if something happens to you.” 

“I’ll be fine,” he promised. 

Whether or not she believed him, Malcolm couldn’t tell. She stared at him for a few seconds with a studious expression, then she left, the door almost slamming closed behind her. 

Sighing, Malcolm remained where he was for a few minutes, wanting to make sure his sister was actually gone, before he pulled the box out of his coat pocket. It was white, small and thin, almost rectangular, with a red bow neatly tied around it. Malcolm turned it over and over in his hands a few times, feeling mesmerized by it even though it certainly wasn’t anything special. It felt weightless, almost like there was nothing inside, yet he knew there was. 

After spending another couple of minutes examining the outside, Malcolm tugged on one end of the bow, allowing the red velvet string to fall harmlessly to the countertop. Lifting the lid, Malcolm spied pictures of himself and he had to stop himself from dropping the box to the counter out of shock. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected to find, but over a dozen 4x6 photos of him in varying places hadn’t been it. It wasn’t so much that the killer had taken pictures of him, it had been  _ where  _ they had been taken. There were pictures of him in his loft, of him walking up to the crime scene, of him meeting up with Gil, of him studying the scene, of him at the precinct, and on and on and on. Whoever he was, the killer had been content to follow Malcolm throughout the entire past two days, documenting everything. Beneath it all lay a note with three simple words:  _ Be Seeing You _

Instantly, Malcom started profiling the killer. He already knew the killer wanted something from him. Judging from the note that had been left at the crime scene, Malcolm guessed it was information about the girl in the box. He clearly knew Malcolm’s schedule, and had found time to access Malcolm’s loft without being noticed and without having to break in. The fact that he could still get in without trouble was not a question in Malcolm’s mind; this guy was able to blend in enough to not be noticed at a crime scene, he could easily slip past the cops that Gil had stationed outside. Going from the photos alone, he was obsessed with Malcolm, following him at every stage of his day. 

Malcolm pulled his phone out of his coat pocket, his finger halfway to Gil’s name before he stopped to think. While he knew that Gil would want to be told about the killer contacting him again, Malcolm wasn’t sure it was necessary to do it right this moment. Other than study the photos, which Malcolm could easily do on his own, and get them into evidence, there wasn’t much that could be done. And besides, with Gil being ill, he didn’t need to be woken up over nothing. 

Putting his phone onto the counter, Malcolm took a deep breath to allow his thoughts to organize and his fear to subside. His first thought was to go to bed - the day had been arduous and long and he could always use what little sleep he would get - but Malcolm already knew sleep wouldn’t be happening tonight, not with this new puzzle in front of him. 

Settling in for a night that wouldn’t seem nearly as long as the day had been, Malcolm stood up and finally shed his coat. He shivered a little as its weight was removed, but soon adjusted to the temperature of his loft; it probably couldn’t hurt to raise it a little bit, but he’d do that later if need be. 

Briefly eyeing the crutches, Malcolm left them where they leaned against the island and limp-hopped over to place his coat on the coatrack. His ankle grumbled at him, but since it wasn’t nearly as bad has it had been this morning, Malcolm ignored it and headed for the kitchen to make some fresh coffee. He wouldn’t necessarily need the caffeine, but it would be good to have it all the same. There was a puzzle to be solved, and Malcolm was determined to do it before the morning. 

  
  


**oOo**

  
  


Malcolm allowed himself to get lost in his profile, grouping the pictures by timeline, and setting the note that he had found above them. As expected, he didn’t really notice when the morning came until his phone went off with a text from Gil. 

**We got another one.**

A second text quickly followed the first, this one containing the address to Westview Hospital. Sighing, Malcolm gathered everything together, placed it back into the box, then got ready to meet Gil and the team at the latest crime scene. 

  
  


**oOo**

  
  


The border around the police’s barricade was a madhouse. Traffic was backed up far enough that Malcolm happily exited the cab long before he’d arrived and headed to the crime scene on foot. Wading through the multitude of people was never a fun experience for Malcolm, but he did his best, skirting around the biggest part of the onlookers and reporters for as long as he could before weaving in and out of the rest of them. The same officer who had came down to say that Olivia was ready to get to work met him just outside the barricade, escorting him to where Gil stood waiting just outside the front entrance. 

“I see word got out about the killer,” Malcolm said by way of a greeting. 

Gil’s gaze briefly focused over Malcolm’s shoulder, frustration evident on his face. “Something tells me we have your sister to thank for that.” 

Since he couldn’t argue with that, Malcolm didn’t even try. He gave a nod of agreement, turning it into a shrug at the end. He hadn’t intentionally given Ainsley something to go on, but he had known that since he had, she’d run with it. What he hadn’t expected was the frenzy that would greet him. “What’s with the crowd?” he asked as they both headed inside. They took an immediate left, heading down the hall to a set of elevators. 

“There’s speculation that this is a super fan of The Surgeon-” Gil answered, hitting the button that would take the elevator down to the basement. 

“-and The Surgeon always brings out the crazies,” Malcolm said, finishing the sentence for Gil. “Yeah, I know.” He paused, watching as the elevator’s display flashed to  **B** then shuddered to a halt. A part of him didn’t want to ask this next question, but he knew he needed to know before seeing the body. “Does this one look like she came out of a box too?” 

“No,” Gil answered on a sigh, stepping out of the elevator and taking a right. “This time, she’s tied to a table.” 

Malcolm stopped following as Gil’s words registered with him. How had the killer known about that nightmare? Had his father told him? Were they working together in one form or another? 

Something uncomfortably close to betrayal sent pain through his heart at the thought of his dad sharing something that personal to Malcolm. He should have known better than to trust so completely in Martin Whitly, yet he couldn’t stop himself. Rationally, he knew that his father was a bad man, but emotionally, Martin Whitly was still Dad to him, and it was hard to reconcile the two sides. 

“Bright?” 

Malcolm blinked, looking over at Gil, who was staring at him with confused concern. Although Gil knew about Malcolm’s “Girl in the Box” nightmare, the profiler hadn’t told him about this one. For one thing, Malcolm wasn’t convinced that it was a nightmare; certain aspects of it seemed too real for it to be his subconscious tormenting him. For another, if Malcolm’s suspicions were right and he was somehow involved with his father’s victims, that would put Gil in a tight spot as there were several members of the Law Enforcement community who would use that against both of them, and Malcolm couldn’t do that to his friend. 

Plastering on a smile which he knew Gil could see through, Malcolm started walking again. “Sorry,” he said, adding the lie, “I misstepped.” 

Gil’s doubtful expression showed how little he believed Malcolm, but he let it go. “Right, well, since it seems like you’re already familiar with the scene,” he said, pivoting once Malcolm had caught up to him and continuing towards the door straight ahead of them, “I’m sure you’ve already concluded that this is the same guy?”

“You had thought it was someone new?” Malcolm asked, surprised. The idea that they already had a new killer hadn’t even occurred to him. 

“Not necessarily, no,” Gil hedged, his tone indicating that he had hoped it was someone new more than believed it. “But this,” he waved what looked like another note, “confirms it isn’t.” 

No matter how much he wanted to, Malcolm didn’t reach out for the evidence bag since falling flat on his face was not something he planned on doing today. Graceful wasn’t a word that Malcolm would ever use to describe himself. He knew that if he had tried to get the note before Gil was ready to give it to him, he would have tripped over his crutches, landing in an undignified heap on the floor, all with Gil looking at him like he was an idiot. 

If Malcolm was being honest, he probably could have done without the crutches today - his limp would have been heavy, but he would have been fine - but he didn’t really want Gil riding him for not following instructions. Malcolm knew from past experience that Gil didn’t idly threaten. When he promised to do something, he did it. No doubt, if Malcolm had shown up without his new best friends, Gil would have made him get checked out again, get a new set, and  _ then  _ sent him home. All of which meant that Malcolm kept using them in spite of the fact that he’d rather give them to someone who actually needed them. 

The room they entered looked like an old forgotten storage room, with a few weather-warped boxes stacked in a corner and multiple out of date machines gathering dust wherever they had been placed. Malcolm stopped in the doorway, first to pinch his nose to stop a sneeze, and then so he could take in the scene before he became a part of it. 

Practically glistening under the police’s lamplight, Malcolm’s eye was instantly drawn to the table the victim lay on. It was off-kilter with the room, but perfectly centered with the door, and it was one of the few things that Malcolm could see without any form of dust or dirt on it, hinting that it had been placed here specifically for this purpose. The victim’s left shoulder faced him, some small tattoo standing out starkly against the pale white of her skin, her hair spread out around her head like a strawberry blonde aura, her gaze fixed on the ceiling, and her mouth open in a silent cry of what Malcolm assumed was fear. Once again, she matched Malcolm’s idea for the girl in the box perfectly - hair, weight, clothing, everything - solidifying the profile that the killer had intimate knowledge of the original victim in one form or another. 

Stepping carefully to avoid disturbing anything, Malcolm inched closer to the table. Things that weren’t obvious before now came into better focus, and he took it all in, quickly cataloguing one thing then moving on to the next. 

The bruises on her wrists and ankles weren’t unexpected, and so Malcolm barely paid attention to them, his gaze swiftly moving from the rope that had been used to secure her, to the gleaming scalpel that lay at the top right corner of the table. At first, Malcolm thought that it was one of the multitudes of scalpels you could find in stock here at the hospital, but then he noticed the engraving on the handle and his stomach sank:  _ M.W. _

How had the killer gotten a hold of one of his father’s…tools? As far as Malcolm knew, they were all in evidence and everything Doctor Whitly currently had in his cell had been bought new. After the Berkhead case, Malcolm had taken the time to ask about all of it, including the journals. He’d been assured that nothing that had previously belonged to his father had made it inside that cell. So then how had the killer managed to leave something like The Surgeon’s scalpel at a crime scene? Was it possible the killer was a cop? 

“Yeah, we noticed that too,” Gil assured him after noticing what Malcolm was staring at. “We’re having someone check at Evidence to see if anything’s missing.” 

Malcolm nodded, but didn’t answer. His gaze was transfixed by his father’s scalpel, his mind flashing to a scene similar to this one, his father placing the knife into his head, coaxing him to use it, instructing him on the best ways to make cuts. Someone touched him and Malcolm started with a quiet gasp. Eyes wide, he looked to see Gil standing next to him with worry on his face. 

“You okay?” his friend quietly asked. 

A quick glance around the room showed him that beyond Dani, Gil, and JT, no one had noticed his flashback. Malcolm tried to feel relief at that, but his heart was still beating far too rapidly for him to feel anything but the panic that drove it. Nodding, Malcolm took several steps back and gathered himself together.

“Hey, Bright,” Edrisa warmly greeted as she walked up to the body from behind him. “How’s the ankle and wrist?” She paused, then continued without waiting for an answer, “I imagine that, with all the use it’s been getting with the crutches, the wrist aches non-stop, huh? Should you even  _ be  _ using the crutches as much as you are? I mean, obviously, you need them to get around, but if you want your wrist to heal, you shouldn’t be using it as much as you are.  _ Not  _ that I’m your doctor, or anything, just, you know, friendly advice.” 

While he knew that Edrisa’s habit of rambling on a random topic annoyed JT, and Gil to a certain extent, Malcolm found it endearing as it showed her thought process from point A to point B. As a profiler, he appreciated this insight; as a friend, he found it sweet. He smiled, the act warming him after his chilling discovery. “They’re fine,” he said, answering her original question. He would have added more, but looking at JT, he decided it best to move the conversation along. “It looks like she was suffocated…”

Edrisa’s gaze flicked to the bigger detective, her expression souring ever so slightly before she returned her attention to the body. “She was. If I had to guess, I would say that it’s the same MO as our last victim, but I’ll have to get her back to be certain.” She walked around to the other side, putting the victim between her and Malcolm, her eyes roaming over everything much in the same way Malcolm had done when he’d first arrived. Whereas his notes were all mental, however, hers were written down on the clipboard that accompanied her to every crime scene. 

“What do we know?” Gil asked, taking the lead. He crossed his arms over his chest, assuming his second-favorite position while at work. 

“Vic’s name is Elizabeth Brooks,” JT said, his gaze resting on the victim. Unlike Dani, who used a notebook to help her remember things, JT never seemed to need one. Malcolm was sure that the detective wrote stuff down, but he seemed to be able to recall all of it perfectly when asked, and so never pulled one out while on the scene. “She was arrested for a B&E back in ’09, has been in and out of the system ever since. No family. I asked a buddy in Robbery, he said she didn’t have any friends to speak of either; just a junkie boyfriend that’s been missing for several months.” 

“So she’s another person that no one would notice if she went missing,” Malcolm surmised, his profile slowly coming together. “How was the body discovered?” 

“One of the machines was left on,” Dani answered, pointing to a disused heart rate monitor. “Evidently the sensor pad is busted so it thinks everyone is dead. One of the cleaning staff heard the sound, came to investigate. Found this.” 

“Much like with Alicia Doherty, the killer wanted to make sure the body was found,” Malcolm observed. “ _ He  _ wants to be found.” 

“But, why?” Edrisa asked. “Don’t most killers  _ not  _ want to be caught?” 

“Not always,” Malcolm answered, his mind automatically bringing up several of his FBI cases as examples. Since his former employer wouldn’t appreciate him spilling details about those killers, Malcolm refrained from speaking about them. Instead, he said, “Mission-oriented killers often want to be found, but it’s usually not until they have completed their mission. Then, and only then, are they willing to accept the punishment for what they’ve done, though they don’t usually see incarceration as a punishment.” 

“So you think our killer is almost finished with whatever it is he feels he has to do,” Gil said, his tone both a statement and a question. 

“Yes,” Malcolm confirmed without a doubt in his mind. 

“And, what is his mission, exactly?” Dani asked, confusion ringing clearly in her voice. 

“I think he wants answers,” Malcolm said as he started circling the victim. When Gil’s brows furrowed in confusion, he elaborated, “Both victims are perfect replicas for the woman in my nightmares. Every detail is exact. From their hair, to their clothes, to their ages, everything is precisely the same as what I see in my dreams.”

“But if these where The Surgeon’s victims, they wouldn’t be poisoned,” Edrisa pointed out. “The Surgeon took pleasure in the pain he caused his victims. These were killed almost humanely.” 

“Exactly,” Malcolm said, pointing his finger at her. “Which indicates that our killer doesn’t  _ know  _ how the girl in the box died. He knows the details of her case, but he doesn’t know the cause of her death. And  _ that’s  _ what he wants to find out.  _ That’s  _ what he sees as his mission.” 

“So where do you come in?” Dani asked. “You don’t seem to know much more than he does about how she was killed.” 

“But our killer doesn’t know that,” Malcolm argued. “He thinks I know more than I’m saying, hence the notes.” 

“Is it possible that he thinks your dad told you?” Gil asked. 

“Yeah,” Malcolm confirmed. “I was planning on asking him about that today, but, as you know, the plans changed.” 

“What do you mean?” Dani asked, brows furrowed. 

“He means that Martin is conveniently unable to answer questions at this moment,” Gil answered with suspicion in his voice. 

“Let me guess, you guys think that was on purpose,” JT surmised, looking between Malcolm and Gil.

“Gil does,” Malcolm confirmed with a look over at his friend. “But to be honest, I’m not as convinced. There are many things I can see my father doing to get out being questioned, but being sick isn’t one of them. It’s too mundane.” 

“Alright, well, putting that on the back burner,” Gil said. “Dani, JT, to go to her place of residence, I want you to interview anyone our vic might have had contact with. Bright and I will go back to the One-Six, put a call into her current parole officer, see what we can get out of him.” 

“While I get her back to the morgue and crack her open,” Edrisa said, her tone indicating she felt that Gil had left her out of the assignments. When Gil looked at her with eyebrows raised in a challenge, she quickly added, “I mean, I will carefully and conscientiously examine her for evidence and confirm cause of death.” 

Malcolm ducked his head to hide a smile. The idea of the ME mindlessly hacking into a body for autopsy was a ridiculous one. From the minute he’d seen her Y-incisions, he’d known that Edrisa was just as meticulous when performing her autopsies as he was when coming up with a usable profile. The neatness and precision of them, like each stroke of the scalpel had been thoughtfully done to minimize damage, spoke to how well she treated each victim she examined. It was one of the things he liked best about her, if he was being honest. She gave the same amount of respect and professionalism to each body that came through her morgue, no matter what their position in life had been or how they were viewed by the rest of the world.

He knew that Gil knew all of this as well, better probably, but he also knew that Gil liked to have a certain amount of decorum when at a crime scene. More often than not, Edrisa came close to crossing that line, which often resulted in Gil giving her a warning look. Unlike Malcolm, Edrisa never failed to heed it.

Gil waited long enough to make sure his message had been received, then he turned and headed for the door. Offering Edrisa a small smile, Malcolm followed, catching up with the older man at the elevator. Weight inside his coat’s breast pocket reminded him of the box he’d brought with him. In all the excitement and trauma of the crime scene, he had completely forgotten about it. 

“When I came home last night,” he said as they stepped onto the elevator and Gil pressed  **1** , “I found something waiting for me.”

Gil raised his eyebrow, surprise and curiosity on his face. “Something,” he repeated, his tone indicating more detail was needed. The elevator doors opened and they both exited, Gil heading down the opposite direction than the one they’d entered from. “Care to elaborate?” Gil asked once Malcolm had caught up with him. 

They exited the hospital through a back door where Gil’s Les Mans was conveniently parked. When Malcolm had gotten up this morning, the sky had been a clear blue. The weather hadn’t been warm, per se, but it had been pleasant enough that he had hoped the cold front that had come in a couple days ago was over. But stepping outside now proved him wrong. The once-clear sky was now filled with clouds and the wind that pushed against him as he made his way to the car was strong and frigid. More snow was definitely on its way. 

Malcolm waited until both he and Gil were seated and the car was started before he answered his friend’s question. “The killer left a small box on the island counter.” He paused when he saw Gil’s grip tighten on the steering wheel. Maybe he should have waited until they were at the precinct to mention this. 

“What was inside this box?” Gil asked when he took too long to continue. 

The barely controlled anger he heard in Gil’s voice told Malcolm he probably shouldn’t continue, but he did so anyways. “Pictures. Of me.” 

“How long?” Gil asked as they pulled into the parking structure reserved for police. 

Malcolm’s brows furrowed. “How long?” he repeated, not following his friend’s train of thought. 

“How long has the killer been following you?” 

“Oh, right, as far as I can tell, the earliest picture was taken the night before the first body was found.” 

Gil’s jaw clenched, his grip on the steering wheel tightening even further, even though the car was parked and turned off. After a minute, Gil sighed, lowering his arms and opening his door.

Taking that as his cue, Malcolm opened his door as well, and began getting out of the car. 

“Did you bring it with you?” Gil asked as he walked around the car.

“The box?” Malcolm asked, making sure. Not that he thought Gil would be asking about anything else, but it never hurt to check. Gil rolled his eyes, giving him all the answer he needed. “Yeah,” he confirmed, briefly patting his coat pocket before heading towards the parking lot exit. “We should get it into evidence as soon as we get inside. I’m honestly not sure if we’ll find anything on it, but, you know, better safe than sorry.” 

“Yeah,” Gil agreed, his tone wry. “Better safe than sorry.” He sighed. “I guess we better catch this guy soon, then,” he added, holding the door open so Malcolm could pass through with ease. “We have enough problems with you thinking you’re the center of the world. Can’t have this guy adding to that.” 

Malcolm chuckled lightly. Anyone that knew him, knew that he definitely didn’t think the world revolved around him. Gil was scared and was trying to hide it behind jokes, classic cop coping methods.

“Don’t worry, Gil,” Malcolm assured. “We’ll catch him.” 

“I know, kid,” Gil said, placing a hand on the back of Malcolm’s neck. His grip was a little too tight, making his fear evident through his touch, but Malcolm didn’t say anything since he doubted Gil knew he was doing anything different from the thousands of other times he’d performed the same action. “I know because, if we don’t and something happens to you, I’m not going to be the one explaining everything to your mother. I’m going to wait until we get you back and then I’m going to let  _ you  _ deal with her.”

Knowing that he definitely did not want to deal with his mother if something went wrong, Malcolm immediately headed for Evidence with Gil right behind him. With luck they’d find a print on the box, or something in the pictures to help them identify who their killer was. Luck wasn’t usually on their side, but hey, there’s a first time for everything right? 

**TBC**

  
  



	10. Chapter 10

**IX**

  
  


_“Good morning,” Martin whispered into her ear, his voice rough from sleep. His right arm snaked around her, his hand coming to rest possessively on her ever growing belly. He scooted closer to her, his body so close that she could feel his heartbeat in her back. “How are you both feeling?”_

_Jessica smiled, soaking up his warmth and love. He had asked the same thing every morning since she’d told him she was pregnant. She loved the attention he willingly lavished on her, lapping it up like a satisfied cat. Placing her hand over his so they could both feel their son’s kicking she answered, “He’s a bit restless. I found it hard to sleep with him moving around all night.”_

_“Oh?” he asked, moving so that she could lie flat and make it easier for him to talk to their unborn child. While he talked, she started running her fingers through his hair, gently de-tangling it as she did so. “It’s not nice to keep mom awake, kiddo,” he quietly lectured, smiling up at her. His blue eyes shone so brightly in the early morning light that they practically sparkled. Jessica hadn’t known that starting a family would make him this happy; she kind of wished they’d done it sooner just so she could see that joy in his face every day. He rubbed her stomach, the action seeming to soothe their child. “I know you’re anxious to come, but not yet, okay? We’re not quite ready for you yet.”_

_“Will we ever be ready?” Jessica asked with exasperation. They been taking their time in getting the nursery ready and stocking up on diapers. Money wasn’t tight, per se, but it wasn’t flowing quite as freely as it had been when she’d been living with her parents. Her sacrifices had been few, but so worth it because of the man she’d married. “We don’t even have a name for him yet.”_

_“I’ve been thinking about that, actually.” Martin sat up, putting his left hand on her stomach and folding his legs under him. Once settled, he continued rubbing her stomach like she were Buddha, the movements pleasing to more than just their son. “What about Malcolm?”_

_“Malcolm?” Jessica’s face immediately wrinkled into a distasteful expression. “No one names their kids Malcolm anymore, Martin.”_

_“Well of course they don’t,” he agreed. “The name is outdated, old fashioned, almost, but it was also my grandfather’s name, and I thought it would be nice for our son to always carry his family with him.”_

_Jessica couldn’t argue with that. And, in truth, the more she thought about it, the more she warmed to the idea. “Alright,” she agreed, her heart melting when the sparkle returned to her husband’s eyes. Placing her hand over his, both of them seeming to hold their son, she said, “We can’t wait to welcome you to the world Malcolm Whitly.”_

  
  


**oOo**

  
  


Jessica woke with tears in her eyes and her hand resting protectively on her stomach. Her heart ached, her soul missing those intimate moments between her and Martin. When she’d gone to visit him, she’d told her ex husband that he was dead to her, but that had been a lie. He was very much alive in her mind and he visited her every night while she slept. Which version of him depended on how nice her subconscious felt like being to her. Sometimes it was The Surgeon, taunting her, telling her it was her fault that he’d killed all those people, because _she_ hadn’t stopped him. Other times it was her beloved, nuzzling her, loving her and their children. 

Anger burned in her, making her tears of longing change into tears of frustration and hate. Growling, Jessica threw aside the blankets with enough force that they fell off the bed entirely and landed in a heap on the floor. Huffing out a breath, she slammed her fists into the mattress underneath her. If she was the screaming sort, she’d be doing that as well, but she’d learned long ago that it wasn’t wise to make sounds when others might hear you so she kept quiet.

The man was a murder! Worse! He was a _serial killer_. She shouldn’t still love him, still crave to have him in bed with her, to have him by her side, supporting her during family arguments, quietly encouraging their children to disobey her. She should want him in jail, or burning in hell like he deserved for what he’d done to his victims, their families, and her family. And she did, truly. But she also mourned their love. 

Forcing those thoughts aside, Jessica got out of bed. As she went through her morning routine of getting ready for the day, her mind wandered back to dinner last night with her children. Her concern for Malcolm only grew the more she thought, but alongside that was anger, and it was all aimed at Gil. 

Over the years, the relationship between her and the man who arrested her husband had changed significantly. At first, Gil had been a comfort to her. He had made sure to stop by at least once a week, most often to talk with Malcolm, though he would also check on her while he was there. Jessica hadn’t minded his growing relationship with her son then. In fact, she’d encouraged it, knowing that. Gil Arroyo was one of the best examples of a good man that she had come across in her life. It couldn’t hurt to have Malcolm learn some of those traits from the officer. 

Of course, that had eventually backfired when Malcolm chose law enforcement as a career. A part of Jessica knew that he had done it as a sort of atonement for what Martin had done, but she also knew that if Gil hadn’t been in Malcolm’s life nearly as much as he had been, her son would have gone another way. She shivered when she contemplated what that would have looked like. As much as Jessica hated what Malcolm had chosen, she couldn’t deny that it had been the best option for him. Without puzzles to solve, Malcolm likely would have ended up in the same place his father had, though for different reasons. 

Lately, her relationship with Gil had become…confusing. It hadn’t taken long for certain feelings for him to develop, and as a result, Jessica had done her best to see as little of the officer as she’d been able to get away with. The wedding ring on Gil’s finger alone had been enough of a deterrent for her to steer clear, but even if he had been available, Jessica still wouldn’t have acted. She hadn’t been in the right headspace and she hadn’t wanted to bring about possible trouble for Gil should anything happen between them. 

When she’d seen him in his office a few months ago, glasses on his face and grey in his hair, Jessica hadn’t been able to stop the small stutter in her step. Like her, he’d aged, but to her, Gil was just as attractive as when they’d first met. She’d brought up Jackie, more as a way to remind herself that he was still mourning the loss of his wife than anything. When pain flashed across his face, she’d instantly felt badly for saying anything, but she hadn’t let it show. Thankfully, thoughts of what Malcolm was going through had intruded and had redirected her focus, distracting her from the almost lustful thoughts she could feel forming. 

How could Gil allow Malcolm to follow through with this crazy plan?

Jessica tossed her toast back onto the plate in disgust when no answer came. Deciding she would get farther if she went right to the source, she unlocked her phone and called her driver. “Adolpho, bring the car around.” 

“Where to, Ma’am?” 

“The 16th precinct.” 

  
  


**oOo**

  
  


By lunchtime, Gil was ready for the day to be over. The team had spent the morning going over their notes again, almost desperate to find a connection between the mysterious girl in the box timeline and their current killer. About fifteen minutes before they'd called it quits, the Evidence department had called to inform Gil that they were done with the photos, and he could come pick up the report and the logged pictures anytime. He had sent JT to do that while Dani went out to grab lunch for all of them and Bright stayed right where he was to continue the search. With the others busy, Gil had headed straight for his office, closing his door and turning out the lights before collapsing onto the desk chair, his head in his hands.

When he'd woken up this morning, Gil's first instinct had been to call in as the cold he'd been fighting had fully developed while he'd slept and he felt awful. But then his brain started working and he knew he couldn't do that, not with an active case. So, he'd taken some cold medicine and gotten ready for the day. He now regretted that. The sore throat and stuffy nose, he could handle, but the pounding in his head was another thing entirely. He could barely think thanks to the pain, making him utterly useless to his team. 

Letting out a cough that shredded his throat, Gil groaned then dug through his desk drawer, quickly pulling out what he’d been looking for. In general he hated taking medicine, but he kept some on hand for times when he really, truly, needed it. Today was one of those days. Popping the pills into his mouth, he almost choked when Jessica walked in, opening the door without bothering to knock first. 

She stuttered a step, momentarily freezing as she looked at him with furrowed brows. “Are, are you okay?” 

“I’m fine,” Gil lied, the crack in his voice proving him wrong. “What can I do for you, Jessica?” 

“I wanted to talk to you about Malcolm,” she said, stepping further into the office. Gil glanced over to the conference room where he spied the man in question beginning to make his way towards them, but said nothing. Jessica’s expression turned angry, her blue eyes as hard as sapphires as she said, “How can you even _think_ of letting him go through with this crazy scheme?”

Gil sighed. “Jessica-”

“No,” she interrupted, her hand slicing through the air to cut him off. “Don’t try to placate me, and don’t try to explain that Malcolm is a grown man. I want to know how you, the man who claims to love Malcolm like a son, can consciously allow him to use himself as bait.” 

“He’s ‘allowing’ it because he knows that it’s our best chance at catching our killer,” Malcolm answered, announcing his presence. His tone was bordering on exasperation, but his expression was patient, like he was trying to explain something to a child. He leaned on his crutches, his injured leg lightly resting on the ground.Gil couldn’t be sure, but he thought the profiler’s right hand looked a little swollen and he had to stop himself from forcing the kid to put some ice on his wrist. 

Though she quickly hid it, Jessica jumped upon hearing her son’s voice. She turned to look at him, her expression unchanged as she did so. She didn’t respond to him, merely turned her attention back to Gil, her left eyebrow raised expectantly. 

Gil hesitated, unsure how to answer her question. The truth of the matter was that he wasn’t okay with it at all, but he wasn’t about to undermine Bright in front of his mother. Which left him unable to say anything. Gil averted his gaze, bringing a hand to his forehead when a particularly sharp stab of pain tore through his temples. 

“I had thought you different from Martin,” Jessica said sadly. “Apparently, I was wrong. You are both content to hurt Malcolm so long as it serves your purposes.” 

Gil’s head snapped up, his attention focused on Jessica. The disappointment he saw in her eyes hurt, but not nearly as much as the idea that he was like the monster whom she had once called husband. 

“Okay, that’s enough!” Both Gil and Jessica turned towards Malcolm in surprise. Gil had never heard the kid speak to Jessica with so much anger in his voice. His focus solely on his mother, Bright continued, “I know that you’re worried. I am too. But you can’t take that out on Gil, who, if he had his way, would have had me in police protection faster than you could snap your fingers.” The kid paused, his hard blue eyes softening slightly as he looked over at Gil, then turned hard again when he refocused on his mother. “I know that a part of you has resented my relationship with Gil and Jackie, and that’s understandable, but I need you to stop punishing Gil for it.”

“I’m not,” Jessica started to deny, but her son easily cut her off, frustration evident in his face. “Yes you are,” he argued back, his tone brooking no argument. “You may not want to admit it, you may not even be aware of it, but you are. And it needs to stop.” 

Jessica opened her mouth then shut it again, apparently floundering in the wake of her son calling her out. She looked between both Gil and Malcolm with brows furrowed. Bright crutched closer to his mother with a brief wince on his face. He grabbed her hands, drawing her attention to him. His expression was earnest and comforting as he said, “I know you don’t believe this, but I am capable of loving all of you equally.” He paused for a moment, then added, “I’m not Dad. I have room for more than one person in my heart.” 

There was a pause in which mother and son simply stared at one another and Gil did his best not to let out a ragged cough. Then the moment was over. Jessica stepped away from her son, then pivoted to focus on Gil. “I hope you know what you're doing,” she said with anger creeping back into her voice. “Because if something happens to my son, I know the first person I’m coming after.”

With that, she left the office, slamming the door behind her. Gil stifled a groan as the sound took his headache from a sharp pain to a deep-seated throb that he felt with every beat of his heart. 

“Don’t worry about her,” Bright said, leaning on his crutches with the air of someone who was so used to them that he seemed to forget about them until they were needed. "I'll make sure nothing happens." 

The vagueness in that assurance worried and angered Gil. "To you or me?" he asked, his emotions clear in his voice. He leaned on his desk, using it to hold him up as much as to keep him from nervously fidgeting; he didn't like the direction the kid's thoughts were taking.

"Both if at all possible," Bright answered, his gaze sharp on Gil. The kid's eyes narrowed, no doubt seeing most, if not all, of what was going through Gil's mind. His expression softened ever so slightly, proving Gil had been right in his surmise. His next words didn't do anything to make Gil feel better, though. "But, more importantly, I'll make sure nothing happens to you."

"Bright, if something happens to you, whatever your mother has planned for me will be the least of my worries," Gil assured with exasperation in his voice. After all of these years, how could the kid not realize how much he meant to Gil? He was about to say something else when another throb rent his skull apart. Unable to stop himself this time, Gil groaned, lowering his head and bringing a hand to his temples.

"Gil?" Bright asked with concern in his voice. The sound of crutches told Gil the kid had come closer, but Gil couldn't look at him yet. While the lights in his office were off, sunlight, bright but not warming, streamed through the windows at just the right angle to be in Gil's eyes. "You should go home," Bright encouraged, his voice quieter but sincere. "There's nothing here that Dani, JT, and I can't do without you." 

Gil shook his head, wincing when it made the pain worse. "No," he denied. "I need to go over what Evidence found on that box." He once again collapsed into his office chair, leaning his elbows on his desk and supporting his head. "Just, give me a few minutes," he said, gently kicking Bright out. "I'll be out once the medicine kicks in."

"Okay." There was a pause in which Gil heard Bright head for the door, then the kid said, "Take your time." Another pause then, "Just remember, you trained JT and Dani. They can be your eyes and ears for one afternoon." 

Gil waited until the kid had quietly closed the door behind him, then he let out a heavy sigh. He knew Bright was right, but he also found it hard to relinquish control this time. Normally, he would have given in to the cold, allowed the two detectives to take over for him for the afternoon, and gone home to rest. During this case, however, he couldn't do that. Not with Bright on the line. 

Tears of frustration and worry burned in his eyes, a couple dripping out of his closed eyelids to fall into the palms of his hands. Gil felt raw. Being sick during a case was hard enough, but when it was added to the constant worry and stress of one of his own being hurt or killed by their current murder, it made things exponentially worse. He couldn't show that to his team, though, so he remained in his dark office, hands covering his face and allowed the tears to fall while he waited for the cold medicine to start working. 

  
  


**oOo**

  
  


When Dani walked back into the precinct, it's to find everyone side-eying Gil's office. Curious, but unwilling to inquire, she headed for the surprisingly empty conference room, dropping the Thai she'd brought for herself and JT in front of their seats and leaving the soup and tea for Bright and Gil in the middle of the table. Looking down at the soup, she worried about the profiler's lack of appetite. He was already so thin, almost fragile looking in his $30,000 suits, that she wasn't convinced he could continue to survive if he kept this up. 

Brushing that morbid thought aside, she headed for her desk to grab the reusable set of chopsticks she kept in her top drawer. Though she hates herself for it, she paused there longer than was necessary as her curiosity gets the better of her, her gaze drifting to her boss's office door. Through the open blinds, she could see Gil, looking exhausted and in pain, talking with a woman with dark red hair and a purse that costs more than Dani's monthly rent. Assuming that it was some sort of socialite here to file a claim, Dani moved on, eyes straining to see if anyone else was in the room. From her vantage point, she saw nothing, however, and so she sighed, debating to have someone check to see if the absent profiler was in the restroom when Bright's raised voice vibrated loudly enough to grab the entire precinct's attention. Ah, so that's where he was. 

Dani watched as both the woman and Gil looked towards the door with the same expression of shock mirroring their faces. She couldn't blame them. In all the time she'd known Bright, she'd _never_ heard him get that angry. Especially not when around Gil. What the woman had said to make the profiler react like that, Dani guessed it had to do with the brokenhearted expression she'd seen on Gil's face not thirty seconds ago. 

It wasn't until Bright limped closer to the woman, his posture radiating gentle concern as he grabbed her hands, that the dots connected and the woman's identity sunk in. This was Bright's mother. Though he had been a part of the team for several months, Dani couldn't remember seeing his mother even once. Actually, that was untrue. She'd seen this woman storm into Gil's office on a couple of occasions, but she'd never known who she was until this moment. Bright hadn't ever introduced them, and he certainly hadn't ever shown her pictures. She'd seen his sister from afar, but even she was kept at a distance from the team. 

The moment Bright's mother stormed out, everyone within the One-Six suddenly had a million things to do on their computers, each person avoiding the steely gaze of the irate redhead with ease. Dani winced when Gil's office door was slammed shut, her gaze immediately switching to her mentor to check on him. Much like JT and Bright, she had noticed how increasingly unwell Gil was becoming. His cough was no longer dry and wheezing, but the kind of cough that shredded the throat with shards of glass that no amount of honeyed tea would help. 

Gil winced when the door was closed, but otherwise he showed no signs of noticing that anything had happened. His attention was focused solely on Bright, who Dani still couldn't see very well. Whatever was said between the two men, Dani could see that it was upsetting to Gil. She watched with an aching heart as he bonelessly sunk into his chair and used his hands to hide his face. Every instinct Dani had screamed at her to go to him, to check on him, but she held back. Now was not the time and here was not the place. 

It took longer than she would have expected, but Bright finally exited, looking almost just as tired as Gil. He offered her a smile that didn't reach his eyes when he noticed her staring, then headed for the conference room without a word. Dani sighed. They needed to catch this guy soon because the two men that she cared about most in the world were sacrificing too much for him to get away. 

  
  


**oOo**

By the time the sun set, the storm that had been blowing in had settled over New York, blanketing the city in a layer of snow so thick that car accidents were already starting to pile up. Although the team had kept an eye on the weather, they hadn't let it deter them from their task. While their gazes flicked to the window, tracking the snow as it began to fall and then gathered, they always went back to the pictures which Evidence had tagged and tested, staring at them for clues as to who their killer was or how he'd managed to get so close to Malcolm without being noticed. 

Two hours later and, though they had leads, Malcolm still felt like they were missing something. There was one obvious avenue that they hadn't explored yet, one he thought was the most likely place they would find their killer, but the three cops in the room had been avoiding it, desperate for there to be another explanation. 

"What are you thinking, Bright?" Gil asked, his voice rough and deep. 

Malcolm hesitated a second, then sighed. "There's one possibility we haven't considered yet." 

"Because we don't think it's worth it," JT answered with a bite to his tone. 

Malcolm knew that was a lie, but he didn't call the detective on it. "Be that as it may, I still think it's where we're going to find our killer. Look at these pictures," he awkwardly shuffled a few feet down the table to a set of picture that had been taken at the first crime scene, his ankle barking at him when he didn't use the crutches to do it. He flipped the images so that they were upside down, allowing both JT and Dani to see them properly. "No one else was allowed on-scene. Just techs, cops, and consultants. How else could our killer have taken these pictures unless he was employed through the NYPD?" 

"He could have impersonated an employee," Dani offered in a far less defensive tone than her partner. 

"I thought of that too," Malcolm assured. Supporting himself on his sore wrist, he reached across the table to where a couple pictures of him in his loft lay. "But that doesn't explain how the killer managed to take these when police surveillance had already been set up on my street. Plus, there’s my father’s scalpel being at the second crime scene. I’ll bet you $5 it was taken from Evidence.”

"You think he's on the force," Gil summarized. He folded his arms over his chest in a defensive posture, not liking the idea any more than JT. 

"Yes," Malcolm assured, refusing to back down because he knew he was right. 

The silence that followed was thick and heavy, weighing them all down like a wet woolen blanket. Wind howled through cracks near the windows, briefly distracting Malcolm with the reminder that he kept meaning to have someone come in and fill them in. 

Like most of those in New York, the building that housed the 16th precinct was old and worn down. But whereas some companies had the funds to keep them current, the government often neglected its police stations in favor of funding wars or stuffing the politicians' pockets. Malcolm had often planned on hiring someone to do minor repairs at the place he considered a safe haven, but he'd always been held back by the flack it could possibly bring down on the team. He wasn't worried about the city of New York fighting him - that's what lawyers were for, right? No, what concerned him was how the others in the building would take it if he came in and flaunted his money in front of them. It wouldn't matter that he was doing it to help them out, all they would see was a rich, white boy swooping in and proving just how much money he had to burn. 

Gil's sigh broke the uncomfortable quiet, each member of the team focusing on the older man with alert attention. Unfolding his arms, Gil supported himself on the table. "I'm sorry, Bright, but if I'm going to investigate a member of the police force, I need more than that."

Although unsurprised by the answer, Malcolm was still disappointed. He nodded, though, silently accepting the decision that had been made. Just because _Gil_ refused to investigate, didn't mean that he couldn't. Ever since he'd started, Malcolm had used his skills as a profiler to analyze everyone he'd come into contact with while at the precinct or at a crime scene. He had several notebooks filled with scribbles he'd made when an observation or conclusion had come to him, some more detailed and filled out than others. The only wild card was the officer that he'd come into contact with twice now; not only had Malcolm not had enough interaction in which he could profile the guy, but he was also surprisingly absent every time Malcolm had tried to find him. 

"Who was that officer who delivered Olivia's message at the first crime scene?" he asked when he realized that he didn't even remember the man's name. 

"Officer Roberts?" Dani asked with an expression showing just how out of left field the question seemed to her. 

"Sure." 

"Why do you wanna know?" JT asked suspiciously. 

"No specific reason," Malcolm lied. "I just don't remember having seen him before." 

"Uh huh," Dani answered doubtfully while biting the inside of her cheek. 

"Look, let's call it a night," Gil said, interposing himself before anything more could be said. "We'll come back in the morning and look it over with fresh eyes." He paused, waiting for the two detectives to nod, gather their things, then leave before he turned towards Malcolm. "Let me get my things, then I'll take you home." 

"It's okay, Gil," Malcolm declined, looking at his phone while he sent out a text message to both his sister and Adolpho. "I'm supposed to meet Ains for dinner. Mother wasn't the only one freaked out by the killer coming after me, it seems." 

Malcolm did his best to make it sound like an annoyance and an obligation rather than something he planned on springing on his sister at the last minute. Gil knew Malcolm well enough that if he didn't, Gil would suspect what he had planned and would try to stop him in one form or another. Gil eyed him with a gauging expression for a few seconds before conceding with a sigh. 

"I'll see you in the morning, Bright," Gil said, offering a tired smile as he placed his right hand on Malcolm's left should and gave a gentle squeeze. 

"Feel better, Gil," Malcolm answered, returning the other man's smile. He waited until Gil had left, then he unlocked his phone and tapped on Ainsley's contact, sliding on his coat while he waited for her to pick up.

_"Wow, you're calling me for a change. This has to be a first."_

It wasn't, but Malcolm didn't want to argue with her. "Are you free for dinner?" he asked, grabbing his crutches and holding them in one hand while he held his phone in the other. His limp was heavy, the pain in his ankle growing with each step he took, but he made it to the elevator uninterrupted, quickly stepping in before Dani or Gil noticed what he was doing. 

_"Depends, are you buying?"_

Malcolm chuckled. "Sure. My treat." 

Neither one of them made very much money in their professions, but both of them had the advantage of not having to pay for very much either. They both had plenty of money in their bank accounts, but Ainsley tended to spend hers more carelessly than he did. Not only did she eat a lot more than did - not saying much since a bird ate more than he did - but she had expensive taste and was far more invested in tools and gadgets for her job than he was. All of which meant that whenever they met up for dinner, it was on his dime. 

_“Alright,”_ Ainsley agreed. Typing in the background told Malcolm that she was working while she talked. _“What’s the favor?”_

“I need you to look into someone for me,” he answered. 

_“Couldn’t one of your cop friends do that?”_ she countered drily. _“I’m sure that pretty one wouldn’t mind doing you a favor.”_

“Dani and I are just friends,” he assured, really not wanting or needing her to go to their mother with ideas of him being in a relationship with one of his coworkers. “But this isn’t something she can do. You’ll see why once you do some digging.”

There was a pause as his sister considered the implications of that. _“I’m assuming you want this information by dinnertime tonight?”_

“That would be ideal, yes. The sooner I have all the facts, the more complete I can make my profile.” 

_“Alright,”_ Ainsley agreed, her curiosity winning her over. _“What’s the name?”_

“Officer Roberts,” Malcolm answered from within the safety of the private car. “I don’t know his first name, but he’s tall, blonde, with blue eyes, a strong, athletic build. I think he’s knew to the force. He may work at the sixteenth precinct, but I can’t confirm that since I haven’t seen him except at crime scenes.” 

_“You’re really not giving me much to go on here, bro.”_

“I thought you liked a challenge,” he answered, teasing her. Her answering chuckle made him smile. “I’ll meet you at Carbone at seven?” 

_“Ooh, Carbone, huh? My favorite. This favor must be big if you’re trying to butter me up that much.”_

“Maybe I simply believe that excellent work deserves excellent dinner.” 

_“Ah, so it’s not a reward, it’s a bribe. Fine, I’ll take it. I’ll meet you there at seven. I’ll do what I can with what you gave me, but I don’t make any promises.”_

“Thank you, Ains,” Malcolm said, truly meaning it. “See you soon.” 

He waited for her to hang up, then he lowered the phone and grimaced as pain shot through his wrist. What he should do until he was to meet her was go see his mother, try to make things right with her. He hated that he had yelled at her, hated the slight hints of fear he’d seen in her eyes, but he didn’t feel badly for saying what he’d said. It was way past time that she stopped blaming everything on Gil. Given how she left, he wasn’t sure she’d heard him while in Gil’s office. Going to see her might help things sink in, but there was only one person he wanted to talk to right now. He just hoped Claremont would let him do it. 

  
  


**TBC**

  
  



	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we're officially caught up. I do have the next chapter started. I'm not very far into it, but I promise to try to get it written and posted within the week. 
> 
> I apologize for the short chapter. This seemed like a good place to end it. 
> 
> Let me know what you think!

**X**

  
  


The snow fell in sheets, coating the city in a blanket of white. Ainsley watched it fall from the warmth and safety of the restaurant, idly wondering if Carbone would close early due to the weather. New Yorkers were no strangers to snow, but when it dumped heavily like this, most preferred to stay within the confines of home, leaving most restaurants and shops to do the same or else risk losing money. Given just how many diners there seemed to be inside Carbone’s, Ainsley doubted she would be kicked out early, but one never knew. 

Taking a sip of her wine, Ainsley kept an eye on the door. Malcolm was late. Only by twenty minutes, or so, but it was enough that it had her worried. Punctuality had been drilled into both of them, first by their father, and then continuing with their mother. Neither one of them liked being late to anywhere - Ainsley liked to arrive on time to everything, while Malcolm preferred being early. What was taking him so long? Was it possible the killer had gotten him and that he wouldn’t be coming? Fear seized her heart at the thought, but it didn’t last long as Malcolm walked in not a minute later. 

Walked was probably a loose term since he was limping rather heavily. Where his crutches were, Ainsley didn’t know, but she guessed that he opted to leave them at his loft. She was surprised that he’d used them as long as he had, actually. Malcolm wasn’t one to ignore his health, per se, but it had to reach certain limits before he would take care of himself; a sprained ankle didn’t even register on his pain scale, not really.

“Ains,” her brother greeted, looking harried in spite of the crisp suit he wore. “Sorry I’m late. I got caught up at Claremont.” 

“You saw dad?” Ainsley asked eagerly. If Malcolm had gotten in to see their father, that meant that she could call in the morning and reschedule her meeting with him to an earlier time. When her brother shook his head in a negative, disappointment calmed her back down. 

“No, they wouldn’t let me see him.” 

They both paused their conversation when the server came over to take their drink orders. Since Carbone’s was a favorite haunt of theirs when they dined without their mother, they both ordered their food as well without the need to look at the menus. Their server, a rather handsome man in Ainsley’s opinion, offered a pleasant smile as he took their orders, then left them. 

“They why did you go to Claremont?” Ainsley asked once it was just the two of them again. She kept her voice low in spite of the background noise of other people’s conversations; neither one of them wanted someone hearing who they were discussing. While Ainsley didn’t mind people knowing who her father was, Malcolm did, and though she didn’t agree with it, she respected his wishes and did her best not to out him.

“I was hoping they would let me ask him some questions,” Malcolm answered, his fingers fidgeting with the glass of water in front of him. Offering a sardonic smile, he added, “They didn’t.” He drew in a deep breath, seeming to use it to collect himself. “So, what did you find out?” 

“Given how little you gave me to go on, not a whole lot,” Ainsley admitted as she pulled her notes out of her bag. “But, I do think I found what you’re looking for. Bro, the favors I had to promise to get this information, you owe me more than dinner.” 

“You know I’m good for it,” he promised with a smile that did little to hide his impatience. The smile stayed in place while their food was delivered, the expression becoming far more fake as it was turned on the waiter, then it faded, replaced with an almost feverish earnestness. “So?” 

Eying her meal with longing, Ainsley sighed. “Your officer’s full name is Robert Roberts. Surprisingly, he’s the only Roberts on the payroll at the sixteenth precinct, so he wasn’t that hard to look up. However, beyond his employment on the force, there’s no record of him - no lease agreement, no rental agreement, car lease, bank account, nothing.” 

“Must be a fake name,” Malcolm inserted before taking a spoonful of soup. 

Taking his cue, Ainsley took a bite of her own meal, savoring the flavors that exploded on her tongue. She took a sip of wine, then said, “Which was what I concluded as well. So, I called a friend for help. After some extreme favors promised on my part, they dug deeper, then sent me what they found.” 

Pushing her drink glasses aside, Ainsley began making room on the table. It took a minute for her brother to figure out what she was doing, but once he did, he helped, pushing his own glass of water, and his bowl of soup, aside, allowing room for her portfolio. Starving, Ainsley refused to move her plate, so she worked around it instead.

“His real name is Matthew Cunningham,” she said, pulling out a copy of a driver’s license. The man in the photo wasn’t smiling, but Ainsley thought him attractive in spite of that. At least until you looked into his eyes; they were hard, with sub-zero warmth in them. If she hadn’t known he was a killer, she would have guessed it by his eyes alone.

Malcolm took the photo, recognition briefly registering on his face as he looked at it. His gaze remained fixed on the picture, leaving Ainsley time to eat more while he studied his suspect. She was halfway through her meal, and thoroughly stuffed, when he finally looked back up at her. “What do we know about him?” 

“Surprisingly, not much,” Ainsley admitted as she leaned back in the chair, half annoyed, half impressed. The person she had look into everything was a professional hacker. Underground, of course, and under the radar, but they did this for a living. The fact that they couldn’t find much on this guy spoke volumes. “He was born and raised in New York, nothing much to be found in his background there, and after he graduates high school, he all but disappears, almost like he’s actively trying to stay hidden.” 

“Was there anything in his childhood that happened? Anything traumatic?” 

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Ainsley answered with excitement in her voice. She rifled through the papers in her portfolio until she found the one she wanted, then she handed it over to her brother. Save for the fact that it was the only photo she could find of the family as whole, there was nothing special about it. There were plenty of photos of Matthew with his brother, on his own, of the brother alone, but virtually none of the parents. “His mother went missing when he was twelve.” She looked around, then lowered her voice to add, “And get this, she disappeared around the time The Surgeon was active.” 

When he first grabbed the photo, Malcolm’s expression had been studious, his mind obviously taking in all the facts and archiving them for later review. But, the minute he laid eyes on the people in the photo, he froze, his eyes widening. Ainsley was about to continue with her speculations when she noticed her brother’s reaction and she stopped, studying him. She could count on one hand the number of times she’d seen her brother terrified. Most often it included a nightmare, and staring at him now, she knew that he was reliving one right in front of her. 

“She was his mother,” he whispered, sounding haunted. His right hand began shaking, knocking on the cloth-covered table with a rapid thud. 

“That’s what I said,” Ainsley answered just for something to say. She knew he meant something other than the obvious, but she also knew the best way to snap him out of his mind was to remind him that she was there. 

As expected, Malcolm’s gaze flashed to her, the vestiges of whatever nightmare he was in rapidly disappearing from his face. He blinked, then said, “No, The Girl in the Box - she was his mother.” 

Oh. Oh shit. Ainsley didn’t know what she expected him to mean, but she hadn’t even thought it would be that. His most prominent nightmare since he was ten, and they just found  _ the biggest  _ piece of the puzzle. Guess that favor she owed wasn’t too big after all. 

Ainsley smiled at their server, who dropped the check off during the lull in their conversation. Malcolm instantly pulled his wallet out and placed a credit card on top of the printed bill. They both waited for the man to leave with the payment before either one of them spoke. 

“Are you saying that the girl in your nightmares was Cunningham’s mother?” she asked, wanting confirmation. 

Once the server had walked away, Malcolm had picked up the family photo, and he now stared at it, his gaze transfixed. He nodded, though, silently answering her question. “ _ That’s  _ why he chose me as a target. He thinks I know something about her disappearance.” 

“But how?” Ainsley asked, quieting long enough for the server to bring Malcolm’s card back. “No one but Gil, Mom, me, and your therapist know about your nightmare. It wasn’t in any of the reports, and you refuse to do interviews.” 

“But there’s the 9-1-1 call,” he reminded her, tucking his credit card back into its slot in his wallet. “When I called the cops on Dad, I mentioned he had a girl in a box.” 

“Do you think he got hired at the precinct to get a copy of that phone call?”

“That call is public record of a sort,” he answered, sounding almost dismissive. “All he would have to do is submit a request and he’d be able to review it. If he’s willing to impersonate a cop, faking the right credentials wouldn’t be a problem for him.” He shook his head. “No, it’s likely he got hired at the sixteenth to keep an eye on me.” 

Ainsley thought of accusing him of being self-important, but she quickly dismissed the idea and took her last sip of wine instead. Then a thought occurred to her. “Do you think he knows that you suspect him?”

Malcolm shook his head no. “I don’t think so.” He paused a minute, then added, “But I can’t be sure. I couldn’t find him before I left. Someone might have noticed my interest and told him.” Ainsley watched as his breathing sped up, his eyes widening as he took in the implications of that. “I have to go.” 

“Do you want me to come with you?” Ainsley asked as she quickly stood and put on her coat, fully prepared to follow him. Her reporter senses were telling her there was a story to be had if she went with her brother, but her sisterly senses told her he shouldn’t be alone. 

“No,” he immediately denied. “It’s getting pretty bad out there. You should go home. I’ll call you tomorrow. Thanks Ains.” He spoke hurriedly, donning his coat with a swiftness that surprised Ainsley. Once he’d thanked her, he left, not bothering to wait for a response from her. 

“You’re welcome,” Ainsley muttered, stunned. She watched her brother leave the restaurant with a sigh. Since her chances of getting a cab were minimal, she ordered an Uber then prepared to leave. Tucking her portfolio back into her bag, she grabbed her things then headed outside to wait for her ride. Scrolling through her contacts she called Gil, doubting he would pick up but hoping he would. Someone needed to make sure Malcolm didn’t get himself killed, and since he wouldn’t let Ainsley help him, Gil was the next obvious choice. 

Ainsley sighed when she reached the Lieutenant’s voicemail. “Gil, it’s Ainsley. I have some information you’re going to want if you want to catch the girl in the box copycat before he gets Malcolm. Call me. I promise it’s all off the record.” 

That last bit hurt her to say, but she knew it was the only way Gil would call her back. If he thought she was going to print anything he said, he would ignore her. This way, hopefully he’d get back to her within the hour. 

Giving the driver her address, Ainsley settled into the backseat, feeling troubled. Something about Officer Roberts being absent just as Malcolm began to suspect him seemed suspicious to her. But beyond everything she’d already done, she didn’t know what else to do. So, she went into her apartment, poured herself some more wine, and waited for Gil to get back to her, hoping she wasn’t too late all the while. 

  
  


**oOo**

  
  


The minute he’d left Carbone’s, Malcolm pulled his phone out and called Gil. Surprise briefly replaced excitement when his call went to voicemail. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been sent to voicemail; Gil always made it a point to answer his calls, no matter the time of day. “Gil, I know who our killer is,” he said after the beep. “Call me back when you get this.” 

Rather than try to hail a cab, he chose to walk home. One of the best things about Carbone wasn’t the food or the service, it was location; in good weather and health, it only took him ten minutes to walk there. Tonight he had neither of those things, so the trip would take longer, but not by much. Since it gave him time to think, he didn’t mind the extra time. 

Ainsley had come through for him in such a big way. He honestly hadn’t expected her to find half of what she had in the time he’d given her. Whoever her friend was, he owed them more than he could ever hope to repay. Although he knew that Ainsley had taken care of his debt to that person, Malcolm still felt the need to give them something as thanks.

He couldn’t believe he actually had a name. Technically, Ainsley hadn’t told him the girl’s name, but he supposed it wouldn’t be too hard for Dani to find it out. Not only did he have a name, even if it was a surname, but he knew where she came from. How she connected with his father, he hadn’t a clue; the name of Cunningham hadn’t been in any of the files they’d perused in searching for connections. It was possible she went by her maiden name, and that was why he hadn’t found her, but he couldn’t be sure since it was also possible that it had been a chance meeting, one that meant they would never find a connection. 

Roberts, on the other hand, Malcolm was  _ positive  _ he’d seen in one of the files. Since he couldn’t remember which one, he headed for the loft to consult the notes he’d taken. It surprised him that  _ he  _ remembered seeing the name, but none of the others had. Was it possible that by the time the rest of them had gone through one another’s piles, they’d been too tired to make the connection? 

Unlocking his building’s door, Malcolm quickly went upstairs and let himself into the loft, turning on the dim lights as he shut the door. All thoughts ceased the moment he saw the trunk sitting in his living room. The lid was open, the darkness within pulling him towards it with an inevitability he didn’t try to fight, though he knew he should. His heart raced as he limpingly made his way towards it, his eyes looking into every dark corner he could find in hopes of finding Cunningham first. But in that, the shadows in the loft had the advantage. He saw and heard no one but himself. 

Malcolm paused in front of the trunk, his gaze briefly flicking to the camera propped on the other side, the red, blinking light telling him it was recording, before his attention was arrested by a note in the bottom of the trunk. Bending down, Malcolm grabbed it, bringing it closer to his face so he could read it by the moonlight. His eyes widened as he read it, his brain yelling at him for allowing his need to find answers to be stronger than his common sense. 

Footsteps approached from behind him, fast but quiet. Malcolm started to turn around, to see his attacker, but the man was too fast and pain exploded in his head, blinding him with stars and stealing his breath, stopping him from crying out. Stunned, Malcolm fell to the floor, his knees colliding hard with the wooden planks before another hit sent him tumbling into darkness. 

The note fell from his slack grip, the threat on it clear as day -  **Now it’s your turn**

  
  


**oOo**

  
  


Gil groaned as his phone went off for the third time in less than an hour. Being intent on going home and getting enough sleep to kick this cold up the backside, he’d ignored Malcolm’s and Ainsley’s phone calls, figuring he’d check his voicemail after he’d gotten changed and taken some medicine. The text alert had him curious, though, so he put his glasses on and checked the message. Having expected it to be Bright, Gil’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion when a number he didn’t recognize popped up instead. Attached was a video, nothing but shadows in the initial frame. Curious yet wary, Gil tapped on it.

At first, he couldn’t see anything, but then he recognized the sound of the door to Malcolm’s loft being opened, and the light from the hallway briefly highlighted Bright’s slim form. It should have surprised him to note that the kid wasn’t using the crutches, but knowing Bright as he did, it didn’t shock him in the least. Though the lights within the loft weren’t bright, it was enough for Gil to see the trunk sitting on the living room floor and his heart stopped as he watched the kid head straight for it.

“Bright, what are you doing?” he growled at the screen, anger giving him a voice where fear had stolen it. “Leave and call me.” His hand clutched his phone harder, like his subconscious mind expected it to ring, but he knew no call would be coming. This wasn’t live. He gasped as a shadow approached the kid from behind, arm raised for a strike. “No!” he called as the hit landed, his heart racing as his instincts screamed at him to rush to the rescue. 

Gil watched, horrified as the kid’s expression went from scared, to pained before he fell to his knees. He growled when he saw the mysterious figure poise to strike again, his hand tightening on his phone as he imagined it around the man’s neck. His anger grew to fury as he helplessly watched the man bundle Bright into the trunk, close the lid, then lock it. God,  _ please  _ don’t let the kid remember this! 

Half expecting the video to end, Gil was surprised when it kept going. The man, dressed all in black to either hide his identity, easily blend into the shadows, or both, approached then held up a note -  **Come Find Me**

“Don’t you worry about that,” Gil promised, the growl in his voice not just from the cold. “I’ll find you, and may God help you when I do.” 

**TBC**

  
  



	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for how long it took me to get this out. Once again, life has gotten crazy and that was BEFORE the coronavirus took over the world. I hope the other chapters won't take several weeks to get written, but I make no promises. 
> 
> Thank you all for your love and comments on this story - they make my day. 
> 
> It's another short chapter, but I thought it was a perfect place to end it..that, and I wanted to get it out to you guys. Hope you all like it! 
> 
> M

**XI**

_Bright’s been taken._

Three words. That’s all it had taken to turn Dani’s world upside down and throw her team, her family, into turmoil. When Gil had first told her, she’d needed him to repeat it a few times before the meaning behind the words finally registered. As much as she wanted to, she knew she couldn’t blame that on the lateness of the hour. No, her brain had simply refused to understand what it was being told. Even so, she’d acknowledged the statement, then followed orders and met him, the crime scene specialists, and JT at Bright’s loft.

From there, the night had been a blur. She, JT, and Gil had tried to stay out of CSU’s way as they had combed through the loft, but it wasn’t easy. Spacious though the apartment was, it had never been intended to hold that many people with so many areas blocked off. As a result, the three of them often migrated from one unwanted space to another. Gil had shown Dani and JT the video when they’d arrived, staying near the front door while the techs worked in varying spaces within the loft. The sound of something metal colliding with flesh and bone made Dani feel sick, but that had quickly turned to anger when she’d read the note at the end.

By dawn, the three of them were completely exhausted, but rather than go home and sleep, they had each headed to the precinct, not wanting the trail, thin though it may be, to get cold. Gil’s phone had gone off a number of times during the morning, each time ignored and sent to voicemail. Going by his expression alone, Dani guessed that it was the reporter, Ainsley Whitly, who kept calling, but of that she couldn’t be positive. At least, not until she saw the name flash on his phone.

“You should just answer it, Boss. The more you ignore her, the more suspicious she’s going to get,” Dani advised, knowing none of them wanted the blonde poking her nose into their case, especially not now.

Brows furrowed in frustration, Gil did as she suggested. “This is Lieutenant Arroyo,” he answered, his tone professional and showing no hint of what he was truly feeling. He raised his left hand to his head, rubbing it gently. “Yes, Ainsley, I apologize for not getting back to you. Things around here have been,” he paused as though searching for the right word, “hectic.” He paused, listening to what the reporter was saying. “Oh?” His eyes snapped to Dani, the anger in them not aimed at her. “Oh he did, did he?” His brows furrowed. “Wait, hang on, let me put you on Speaker.” He set the phone onto the table, then tapped the speakerphone button. “Can you please repeat what you just told me?”

There was a pause as sirens wailed in the background. _“Malcolm called me last night and asked me to investigate Officer Roberts.”_

“Of course he did,” JT replied, looking annoyed, though unsurprised.

Dani agreed, but it was no more than she had expected of the profiler. Although they had learned to trust in Bright’s instincts, there were times when their guts told them something different. This wasn’t one of those times - in fact, Dani had been sure Bright had been right to suspect the newest hire - but, since they had shut him down, Bright did what he usually does in such cases - he investigated on his own.

“Did you find anything?” Gil asked, his attention focused on the phone.

Another pause, followed by muffled sounds, then, _“Where’s my brother?”_

Gil closed his eyes, realizing his mistake. He looked up, first at Dani and then at JT, as though asking for help or permission. Dani shrugged, not knowing what else to do. She knew that Gil didn’t want to tell Ainsley over the phone that her brother was missing, but she also knew that the blonde had probably already come to that conclusion all on her own. Gil sighed, closing his eyes once more. “Malcolm’s been taken by the killer.”

Yet another pause, this time as Ainsley presumably took that in, then she said, _“I’ll be there in five minutes.”_

Before anyone could argue or say anything more, she hung up, leaving them all to stare at one another, at a loss as to what to do next.

Gil sighed. “Well, I guess we better clean up for our guest.”

**oOo**

There weren’t many times in Ainsley’s life when she willingly admitted to being Jessica Whitly’s daughter - in fact she often went out of her way to avoid it - but right now she was glad she was because it gave her the confidence to walk right into the precinct like she owned it without an ounce of fear. Once at reception, she stopped long enough to locate Gil and the team, then headed straight for them, completely ignoring the receptionist who tried to get Ainsley’s attention as she did so. Surprise briefly sparked when no one tried to stop her from storming into the conference room, but a quick glance around told her everyone in the precinct had been expecting this to happen.

The room in which Ainsley assumed Malcolm spent most of his days was…boring. The walls were a greenish-grey color that she was sure was supposed to be simply grey, with certain areas looking cleaner than others. Green chairs surrounding the conference table did nothing to dispel the dingy look, but she supposed the NYPD didn’t care how clean or dirty the room appeared to others. It was functional, and that was all it needed to be.

“What, no crime scene photos?” she joked when she noticed there was nothing in the room which spoke of them working on a case. The three people in the room stared at her, their expressions unreadable. Gil’s even stare was nothing new to her so she ignored him, moving on to focus on the two she barely knew at all.

The man standing behind Gil’s right shoulder looked better suited for a football player than a cop. His crossed arms showed off his huge biceps, the muscle definition standing out and showing very little fat. It took a minute, but eventually Ainsley was able to put a name to him - Detective Tarmel. Over the past few years, she had crossed paths with the NYPD, and Gil’s team, quite often, but it was always Gil who shooed her away, telling her no comment, and almost always giving her _nothing_ to go on. She’d come up against Detective Tarmel maybe once, but it was enough - if anything, he was more inscrutable than Gil.

The woman, on the other hand, was new to her. Ainsley had seen her a few times, but she had yet to have any contact. She was gorgeous, with big brown eyes that Ainsley wanted to get lost in and dark, curly hair that Ainsley couldn’t imagine having to brush out. Unlike the two men, she didn’t stand with her arms crossed. Instead, she leaned against the wall, seemingly removed from the scene, but positioned in a way that meant she could observe everything without being a part of it. Her expression was blank, her eyes showing she was studying Ainsley as much as Ainsley was studying her, but nothing of what she thought showed on her face.

Ainsley sighed when no comment came. Tossing her bag onto the ugly green chair that sat in front of her, she crossed her arms over her chest, mirroring Gil’s and Tarmel’s stances. “What happened to my brother?”

“He was taken by the killer,” Gil answered, his tone indicating he meant to add something else, but Ainsley cut him off.

“You said that already,” she said with impatience in her voice. “How do you know that’s who took him?” she asked, briefly looking at each one of them before refocusing on Gil. “Did the killer leave a signed note, or are you just assuming it was the killer?” The three of them shared a look, unease in Gil’s expression. “What?” she asked, catching on. “What is it you don’t want me to know?”

Gil hesitated far too long for Ainsley’s liking, sharing another look with his team. When he looked back at her, Ainsley saw resignation in his face. “He sent us a video,” he answered on a sigh.

“Can I see it?” Ainsley asked after taking a minute to register the words.

Again, they all shared a look, with the woman giving a minute shrug, then Gil sighed a second time and pulled his phone out of his coat pocket. He swiftly unlocked it, tapped the screen a couple times, then handed the phone over to her. She took it from him with no small amount of trepidation. Swallowing to hide the emotion, she started the video. “Malcolm, what are you doing?” she murmured in annoyance when he started heading for the camera. She gasped at the sound of something hard connecting with flesh, her eyes glued to the screen as her brother disappeared from view.

When the video ended, Ainsley handed the phone back to Gil. “I think I can help,” she said once he’d taken the phone out of her hands, digging into her bag for her portfolio. “But, you have to let me in.”

Gil flicked a look at his team, then turned back to Ainsley, his brows furrowed in confusion. “Let you in, where?” he asked, folding his arms back over his chest almost defensively.

“On the investigation,” Ainsley clarified, her tone showing how obtuse she thought he was being.

“Are you saying that you won’t help identify the killer who has your brother unless we give you all the details on the investigation?” the female detective clarified with incredulousness in her voice.

“No, of course not,” Ainsley answered, offended. She was a reporter, not a monster. “But I don’t think it’s too much to ask that you keep me in the loop from now on since you wouldn’t even have the killer’s name without me. And,” she hastily added when Gil opened his mouth no doubt to deny her, “I promise I won’t report on anything I’ve learned, past or present.” She paused as Gil seemed to consider that, then quietly said, “Let me help.”

The silence stretched on far longer than she liked with Gil staring at her the entire time. At long last, he sighed. “Alright, what do you got?”

Before Ainsley could answer, a uniformed officer knocked on the door. “Lieutenant Arroyo, a messenger dropped this off for you,” he said, handing Gil a small manilla envelope with a small notecard taped to it.

“Did he say who it was from?” Gil asked after checking the package for a return address.

The officer shook his head. “Said you’d know who it was from.”

Gil nodded, but said nothing, clearly giving the officer his cue to leave. Once the door was shut, Ainsley asked, “It’s from the killer, isn’t it?”

Gil nodded again, his jaw clenched in evident anger as he read the note. Handing the note to his team, Gil then opened the envelope, dumping a USB out onto his palm. Without a word being said, the female detective left the room only to come right back with a laptop in hand. “Ainsley, you should leave,” Gil said as the laptop booted up.

“Like that’s going to happen,” Ainsley answered, joining the rest of them on the other side of the conference table. Leaning in, she watched as the female detective clicked on the file and pulled up another video, nothing but darkness in the initial frame. Ainsley let out a ragged breath to try to calm her racing heart.

“You sure you want to see this?” Gil asked with concern in his voice.

“Just do it,” she answered, adding, “Please,” when she heard how commanding she sounded.

The video began with a man, dressed in all black, stepping away from the camera. Although he wore a mask on his face, Ainsley knew it was Matthew Cunningham, something she knew she’d have to inform Gil and his team of once the video was over. He blended seamlessly with the shadows as he grabbed a short staff, then headed for Malcolm.

Malcolm was obviously the central focus as the camera faced him and him alone. He was framed so they couldn’t see anything but him, while remaining far enough away that they could see how he was being held, though Ainsley wished she hadn’t seen it. Thankfully, Matthew had left Malcolm clothed, so she wasn’t seeing anything of her brother that no sister should ever see, but the dried blood crusting at his hairline and the red marks she could make out on his wrists were also things she could have lived without.

 _“Interview of Malcolm Whitly, session one,”_ Matthew said, his voice distorted, no doubt by a scrambler.

While Matthew had been walking towards him, Malcolm had kept his attention on his captor, his gaze almost curious. Clearly he had no idea what the man had planned, but Ainsley also didn’t doubt that her brother was studying the killer as well. Once Matthew had walked behind him, Malcolm’s gaze focused on the camera and then Ainsley saw the fear that her brother was careful to hide from the one who held him.

Ainsley quietly gasped, her hand going to her mouth before she could even think of stopping it. She felt Gil looking at her, but she ignored him, her eyes glued to the screen instead. It was like a horrific car accident - you didn’t want to watch, but your attention was so captured that you couldn’t look away.

On the screen, Malcolm’s hands began to flex, his movements looking uncoordinated, almost like he’d lost feeling in them. Something about the forms his fingers made drew her notice, and for a second Ainsley could only stare at them, her brain seeing _something_ but not fully able to decipher it. Then Matthew started with his questions and Ainsley’s brain refocused on the scene as a whole.

_“Here’s how it’s going to work, Mr. Whitly. I’m going to ask you questions and you’re going to answer them. Lie to me or choose not to answer and the cloth around your chest gets tightened. Do you understand?”_

Ainsley focused on the strip maroon cloth wrapped around her brother’s chest when it was referenced, then she went back to staring at Malcolm’s hands. He’d stopped flexing them, though, so she moved on to trying to see past the darkness for a hint as to where her brother was being kept. Malcolm gasping drew her attention back to him.

 _“Do you understand?”_ Matthew asked a second him, enunciating each word with more emphasis.

 _“Yes, I understand,”_ Malcolm said, his voice tight, like he didn’t have enough air to support it. The cloth moved, then he drew in a deep breath. His hands started moving again, and Ainsley focused on them as she listened.

_“Let’s start simple. What’s your name?”_

_“Malcolm Bright.”_ He gasped, his hands freezing as his air was cut off, forcing Ainsley to re-focus on him.

 _“Wrong,”_ Matthew pronounced with something almost like anger in his distorted voice. _“What’s your name?”_

 _“My name is Malcolm Bright,”_ her brother answered, gasping again as the cloth was tightened. He growled when the pressure didn’t let up, his jaw tightening.

 _“Wrong!”_ Matthew yelled, allowing his rage to show through. He paused and Malcolm growled again, pain in the sound. _“What…is…your…name?”_

 _“My legal name is Malcolm Bright,”_ her brother answered, his voice weak from lack of oxygen. _“But, I was born Malcolm Whitly.”_ The cloth moved and Malcolm gasped as the pressure was released. His hands started moving again, the motions just as clumsy, but also almost repetitive in the shapes they formed.

 _“Fair enough,”_ Matthew replied from his position behind Malcolm. He leaned in, almost resting his chin on Malcolm’s shoulder and putting his masked face in focus of the camera, showing just how high Malcolm hung off the ground. Her brother was medium height at best and, thanks to all the information her source had gathered, Ainsley knew Cunningham to be over six foot. For them both to be even now meant Malcolm was at least five inches off the ground, if not more. _“Who is your father?”_

Malcolm paused a moment, defeat in his posture. _“My father is Doctor Martin Whitly, also known as The Surgeon.”_

 _“Very good.”_ Cunningham praised. _“How old were you when you discovered the body in your father’s trunk?”_

Malcolm’s brows wrinkled. _“I don’t, I don’t know.”_

 _“Wrong.”_ The cloth tightened, making her brother gasp and growl again.

 _“You want definitive answers,”_ Malcolm argued with frustration in his voice, _“but I don’t have any to give you. My father started drugging me shortly afterwards and now all of my memories are jumbled, so much so that I don’t trust my own timeline. I think I was ten, but I don’t know how many weeks passed in between when I found the girl in the box and when I called the police, so I could have been younger and I wouldn’t know it.”_

Ainsley’s brows wrinkled in confusion. This was the first she was hearing about her father drugging her brother, but it wasn’t that which had her frowning. She had always thought the time between her brother finding the body and him calling the cops had been a week at most. The idea that it could have been months instead was worrying, yet also intriguing. What else had happened during Malcolm’s missing time? How many people had their father managed to kill and hide the evidence of?

 _“Do you know who she was?”_ Ainsley’s spine tingled at the hate she heard in the question.

_“She was your mother.”_

Malcolm gasped, the answer evidently not satisfying enough for Cunningham.

 _“What was her name?”_ Cunningham shouted, his voice drowning out the short cry of pain that Malcolm gave as the cloth was tightened further.

“Bastard’s slowly breaking Bright’s ribs,” Tarmel quietly growled. “This isn’t an interview, it’s torture.”

 _“I don’t know,”_ Malcolm growled out. _“Up until last night, I didn’t even know who she was to you. I’ve grown up only ever knowing her as ‘The Girl in the Box’.”_

That seemed to make Cunningham pause, though he didn’t let up on the pressure. _“So you know who I am,”_ he said, his tone amused. _“Guess I don’t need this then.”_ He took his mask off, revealing his identity.

“Damn it,” Gil cursed under his breath.

“Bright was right,” the woman cop said with a quick glance up at her boss, something almost like guilt in her expression.

 _“Last question, then we’ll take a break for the night and begin again tomorrow.”_ Evidently the scrambler had been in the mask because now, Cunningham’s voice was his own. _“Did you help your father killer her?”_

Malcolm’s gaze rested on the camera and Ainsley’s heart skipped a beat as she recognized the hesitance in his expression. She wasn’t sure if he’d been told the video was going to be sent to the NYPD, but she figured he’d guessed as much and he didn’t want to reveal something like this to his team. Had he actually helped their father?

The sound of cloth being stretched past its tensile strength sounded and Malcolm’s answering cry confirmed Tarmel’s observation on what was happening. Ainsley’s brother was being tortured and there was nothing any of them could do about it except watch it happen.

Cunningham’s arms moved and a sickening crack sounded through the microphone. If there was any doubt in Ainsley’s mind what had happened, her brother’s scream of pain soon drove it away. She paled, fighting the urge to run from the room in order to escape having to hear more. She asked to be included and that meant staying and watching the rest. _“Answer the question - did you help your father kill her?”_

 _“I don’t know!”_ Malcolm answered through clenched teeth. His expression when he looked at the camera was anguished and how Ainsley hated seeing it. _“I’ve told you, there are parts of my childhood that I don’t remember. I don’t know if I helped my father because if I did, I don’t remember it.”_

Cunningham’s arms moved again and Ainsley watched as the cloth loosened considerably before falling to the floor looking feather light as it went. Malcolm’s torturer stepped out from behind him, the short staff in one hand and his mask in the other. He approached the camera, then bent down so that his face was in full view, blocking out everything else. _“We’ve made good progress tonight,”_ he said in an even tone. _“Until my next communication, Lieutenant Arroyo, I hope you have a great evening.”_

Then screen went blank, leaving the team and Ainsley in silence.

**TBC**


End file.
